


waiting to be consumed by you

by sameboots



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Sexual Tension, Sibling Incest (flashback), Vampire!Jaime Lannister, canon-compliant incest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-06-28 08:56:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19808971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sameboots/pseuds/sameboots
Summary: An alternate universe version of A Storm of Swords where Jaime is a vampire. Brienne of Tarth is tasked with escorting him back to King's Landing in exchange for Sansa Stark. Everything is the same, except that everything is also different.--“Why, Cat, I didn’t think you cared.” His voice is droll, his eyes flickering between Lady Catelyn and Brienne. “I haven’t had virgin blood in so long. My mouth is positively watering for a taste.”Brienne can’t prevent the hot blush that floods her cheeks. The vampire’s eyes practically twinkle.“She may be as ugly as an aurochs,” he says, pinning Brienne in place with a look, a deadly predator even leashed as he is. “But she blushes deliciously.”





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sassbewitchedmyass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassbewitchedmyass/gifts).



> This started as a random scene on tumblr, then it expanded to a second scene on tumblr, then my brain decided, "Oh, hey, what if you turned this into a re-telling of ASOS but Jaime is a vampire?"
> 
> Now, here we are. There will be changes to canon, obviously, but the general trajectory will remain close to ASOS for the first few chapters. There will be a slight mixture of TV!canon and book!canon, simply because I've been writing TV!canon of late and it's been a while since I read the books in full. 
> 
> The number of chapters is based on my current outline but, as always, there is a caveat that it's subject to change depending on how long-winded these two get. 
> 
> Thanks goes to dollsome, Luthien and sassbewitchedmyass for support and betaing!

“Brienne!”

Brienne enters the cell at Lady Catelyn’s call. She braces herself before looking at the miserable excuse for a creature, gaunt and pale, lazily sprawled against the furthest wall. He sniffs the air before staring at her with his inhumanly green eyes. A cruel smirk touches his mouth as he turns his gaze back to Lady Catelyn.

“Why, Cat, I didn’t think you cared.” His voice is droll, his eyes flickering between Lady Catelyn and Brienne. “I haven’t had virgin blood in so long. My mouth is positively watering for a taste.”

Brienne can’t prevent the hot blush that floods her cheeks. The vampire’s eyes practically twinkle.

“She may be as ugly as an aurochs,” he says, pinning Brienne in place with a look, a deadly predator even leashed as he is. “But she blushes deliciously.”

Brienne’s hand automatically curls around the pommel of her sword, drawing it out just enough so that the blade catches the torchlight. Lady Catelyn raises a hand to halt her.

“Watch your tongue or I’ll have it cut from your head.” Lady Catelyn’s tone is a vicious, cutting thing. “Lady Brienne is to be your gaoler, not your dinner.”

The vampire’s expression sharpens, an alert glint to his eyes that belies his weakened appearance.

“Am I not restrained enough for you?” He jerks at the cuffs around his wrists, the chains rattling so loudly the sound echoes in Brienne’s ears. “What’s this beast to do? Is it to set me on fire? Pour water blessed by the high Septon down my gullet?”

The fury in his voice is enough to send a shiver down Brienne’s spine. Nothing about him seemed a threat when she first walked into his cage, but now she can see the predator that haunts the nightmares of all of Westeros.

Lady Catelyn appears unaffected, her carriage never faltering as she stares at him. “Your family holds my eldest daughter captive.” The vampire’s expression wavers, the anger replaced by a hint of curiosity. “Lady Brienne will return you to your family in exchange for my daughter. Should she be released, my family will agree to an accord with your family that no harm shall be done to a Lannister at the hands of a Stark.”

“And what makes you think my father will ever agree to this?” The vampire’s tone is cutting.

“Because if he does not,” Lady Catelyn steels her spine, her voice becoming even colder, “I will behead his heir.”

\--

He is to walk to King’s Landing. He, the heir of Tywin Lannister, is meant to traipse his way through a forest, starving and shackled by the largest human woman he’s ever laid eyes on.

The most curious thing about his beast of a captor is her lack of fear. Jaime is accustomed to that sickly, bitter stench of fear whenever humans are near. But this brutish, homely thing doesn’t seem to be frightened. The only thing he can smell is that tempting call of purity and -- something underneath that the sets his back up and makes the nape of his neck tingle. It makes him want to growl like the animal everyone believes him to be.

“Tell me, beast, have you ever been bitten?” Jaime stumbles when she shoves him forward, his toe catching on a root sticking up from the uneven ground. “No, I don’t suppose you have. I would smell it on you.”

He glances over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of that mulish expression she seems to wear like armor.

“You should try it,” he continues. “You’re not like to get penetrated by anything else with that face.”

She yanks at the chain in her hand, the shackles at his wrists jerking him off balance. He laughs.

“Is that all it takes for you to lose your composure?” Jaime throws a smirk over his shoulder. “Come now, surely you know you’re as beautiful as you are a scintillating conversationalist.”

The beast doesn’t respond, not even to glare at him. Her eyes are trained on some far point, as if he is naught more than a saddle pack.

“It’s a long walk to King’s Landing, do you intend to pretend muteness the entire journey?” When the beast still doesn't respond, Jaime tries again. “I don’t do well with boredom. It makes me act out. I’m sure you can imagine what that might entail.”

Jaime braces himself, turning, and launches at her, fangs bared to catch any available flesh. In the blink of an eye, her armored knees pin his arms at his sides and the silver chain is wrapped around his neck. He hisses at the searing pain of silver against his skin and battles against the strength of her. She is bigger than him, but if he was at full strength --

“So you aren’t only as ugly aurochs, but as strong as one, too,” he says, voice choked by the press of chain against his throat. “Are you sure you’re human?”

“Listen, Vampire,” she spits the word at him like an insult. “You would do well to remember that I have slain countless of your number at full strength and you, you’re as weak as a kitten.”

She stares at him with a burning hatred. If he didn’t know better, couldn’t smell the blood pumping furiously through her veins, he would wonder at those eyes. They’re just as inhumanly beautiful as any of his brethren’s, glinting like shattered sapphires surrounding an endless void. He knows on some bone-deep level that if he ever allowed himself to tumble into that void, he would never claw his way back out.

“Unchain me,” he growls, snapping his head toward her. “Let me free and you’ll see the lion within, I swear it.”

The beast tightens the chain around his neck, cutting off the already sluggish flow of blood, rendering him light-headed and dizzy.

“I’m not so easily provoked,” she says. “You may anger me, but you won’t make me forget my duty.” Jaime can feel himself losing consciousness, slipping into the black that threatens the edges of his vision. “Without you, there is no saving Lady Sansa. If I were to kill you, your family would unleash a terror the world hasn’t known since Castamere.”

She loosens the chain, finally, allowing the blood to flow again. Jaime gasps in relief.

“I may not be free to destroy you as you deserve, but I can make this more unpleasant than even a Lannister could imagine.” With that, she stands and tugs harshly on his shackles until he regains his footing. She circles behind him and shoves at his shoulder once more. “Walk.”

So he walks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are moral quandaries and unwelcome erections.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! I know this didn’t actually take years, but it felt like it did. This fic is a different tone than my normal fair. Mostly in that it includes conversations that aren’t just about relationships and feelings. Weird!
> 
> I did make one change that won’t alter the text of the first chapter. But for plot purposes, Jaime is the only vampire in this family. Reasons will be revealed in time. Pinkie promise. 
> 
> I also updates the tags for things I forgot. There IS canon-compliant incestuous background for Jaime and Cersei. They will not have sex in this present of this story. However, as this story is an AU of the canon timeline, Jaime/Cersei is important to the plot. 
> 
> Thank you, as usual, to bethanyactually for making this better than I ever could’ve managed in my own. And for not letting me call rabbits rodents even though their beady little eyes freak me out.

They travel by night, by necessity. She’s stuck with two poor options: traveling by night when her vision is worse, or traveling by day and trying to avoid direct sunlight. The sun won’t kill him outright, but he will blister in direct light, which will only weaken him further and make the journey all the slower. While the woods are thick, they aren’t impenetrable. Brienne may be disgusted by the vampire and his kind, but she’s not a sadist. 

The one benefit to her in traveling by night is that they won’t have to fear discovery near as much. 

Brienne shoves the vampire toward the waiting skiff. He pushes back against her arms, stumbling into her chest. 

“In,” she grits out, giving him another push. 

“Are you intending to  _ row _ to King’s Landing?” 

The incredulous tone in his voice rankles. 

“My plans are not for you to know.  _ In _ .” She points to the skiff. He gives her a sidelong look as he settles back against the bow, lounging like an arrogant, satisfied cat. 

She rows for hours, the moon moving across the sky and her tiring muscles the only indication of just how long. The vampire just watches through hooded eyes, his gaze never wavering away from her. She tries to ignore the shuddering feeling underneath her skin that isn’t quite revulsion. 

She’s only one woman, though, and her pace slows until they’re merely inching down the river.

  
“Unleash me, beast,” the vampire says, breaking the silence so abruptly Brienne startles. His eyes seem to capture hers. He smirks before continuing, “I could help you row. You know, we monsters don’t tire so easily as frail humans.”

“You will keep your chains, vampire.” She looks away from that stare. “And my name is Brienne.” 

“And mine is Jaime,” he retorts, his tone vicious and cutting.

“You deny your nature?” She looks back at him, an eyebrow quirked, a sneer on her lips. 

“Do you deny yours?” A cruel smile twists his lips, a knowing look in those eyes like he can read her mind. But then, he likely doesn’t need to. Anyone, man or creature, could look at Brienne and discern the insults that have been flung at her.

“I remain among the living. My heart still beats in my chest,” she says, after far too long a pause. The kind of pause that shows your opponent your soft underbelly. “I may be large and ugly, but I am no monster. Unlike you.”

His face contorts then, pure hatred painted in broad strokes across his features, but he remains silent. 

When the moon begins to set in the sky and the pitch black of night gives way to a dusty blue, Brienne steers the skiff into the rocky shore. She hauls the vampire out by yanking on his chains. She ignores the barrage of insults as she strongarms him through the underbrush until locating a clearing with enough space to leash him to a tree and for her to sleep beyond his reach, but close enough that any strong movements will alert her.

Brienne gathers the traps, her dagger, and a sack and starts toward the deep of the wood. 

“Where are you going?” His question cracks like a whip in the silence of the forest, drawing her to a halt.

She looks over her shoulder at him. She thinks she may see just a sheen of fear there.

“To hunt.” 

\--

The beast returns and tosses three hares at his feet.

“Eat,” she says sharply and turns to begin building a fire from gathered twigs and dried grass. 

“I don’t eat meat anymore.” Jaime glares at the dead animals at his feet, the memory of rabbit stew so painfully clear he can nearly taste it. 

“I snapped their necks. I’ll dress them after you’re done.” The beast looks over at him, nodding to the hares as if to encourage him. “Blood is blood. I know enough of your kind to know that.”

“I’m like to starve if all I have to drink are these meager offerings.” Jaime’s stomach churns with hunger. He feels as if he’s a husk, parched and fragile. It’s been -- he doesn’t even know how long since he’s had a proper meal. The scent of the beast -- sweaty from her exertions while hunting -- does nothing to quell the need in his gut. 

“You’ve subsisted on animal blood for this long,” she says, leaning over to blow on the burgeoning flame until it blazes fully. “Surely, Lady Catelyn didn’t feed you whole boars.” 

“I was chained, unmoving in a cage,” he growls, fury and frustration coiling in his muscles, urging him to take his right from her, “not crossing half of Westeros by foot.” 

“By skiff,” she corrects absently. “You’ll not get more from me. If the hares are not to your liking, I’ll dress and eat them myself now.” 

Jaime’s lip curls in distaste. She’s lucky he’s weak as a kitten and shackled as he is, or she would realize the dangers of tempting one such as he. She leans back on her haunches as if to stand. He knows she’s likely bluffing, taunting him into eating like she would a naughty child. But then, the hatred that rolls off of her aimed at him makes him less and less certain with every passing moment. 

He snags the nearest hare and sinks his fangs into it. He means to glare at her the entire time, but the moment the still-warm blood coats his tongue, his eyes close of their own accord. The taste of the animal leaves much to be desired. It’s gamey and thin and too short-lived to be considered truly fulfilling. Still, a groan tears out of him before he can stop it, echoing in the forest. He opens his eyes to give the drained animal to the beast to gut and roast over the flame, only to find her eyes locked on his face, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed. 

Jaime knows that look, has seen it on many a willing victim.

He tosses the hare at her feet. She jumps, coming back to herself and snatching the animal. He can see her hands tremble as she skins it. He grabs a second one and bites. This time, somehow, the blood tastes sweet as honey on his tongue.

\--

Brienne manages to ignore the endless prattle of the vampire on the next night’s progress down the river. They’re not nearly as far she intended when she catches the scent on the air: a sickeningly sweet odor tangled up with the putrescence of rotting flesh, the telltale indication of a recent kill.

“If you could row faster,” the vampire says, “I wouldn’t object. That stench is doing nothing for my good humor.”

Brienne ignores him and follows the smell as best as she’s able. They round a bend and there, just onshore, several bodies are strung up in a tree. As she nears, the vampire protesting and insulting her the whole way, she can finally discern that they’re all women. She hears the vampire exit the skiff after her, stumbling with his chains rattling.

“Can you read the sign?” she asks, squinting at the wooden placard around one woman’s neck.

“‘ _ They Lay With Lions _ ’,” he reads out. “Ah, this was done by your side, then.”

The sardonic pleasure in his tone rankles. 

“I don’t serve the Starks,” Brienne answers, eyes still trained on the women who were slaughtered brutally for no good reason. “I serve Lady Catelyn.”

“Has sweet Cat remarried already?” the vampire asks, mock surprise in his tone. “My, my, she didn’t even let old Eddard grow cold.”

“You will not speak of Lady Catelyn that way in my hearing.” She faces him, drawing herself up taller.

He laughs as he says, “Calm yourself, beast. As you informed me yourself, your anger is as impotent as mine.” 

Brienne turns from him to eye the girls again. “I’ll need to cut them down.”

“Why? Because they would be better off sent down the river to follow the current and grace us with their putrescence for even longer?” 

She scowls at him. “I intend to bury them.” 

“Of course, one woman with arms tired from rowing constantly for two nights is going to dig graves for,” he makes a show of counting the women under his breath, “eight tavern wenches. To what purpose?”   
  


“Because they deserve the dignity of a burial.”

“To return the dignity your liege lady’s soldiers or bannermen stripped from them?”

Her stomach flips over at his question, the barb hitting too close to her own disturbed emotions. The vampire looks back at the women, an oddly disturbed look on his face for a creature such as him.

“And you call me a monster,” he says distantly. “What would you call the men that did this?”

Brienne doesn’t have a ready answer for him, stung by the truth in his question.

He looks at her with raised eyebrows, the permanent sneer no longer twisting his lips. She walks away from him back to the skiff, his chains rattling as he follows her. “I’ll row us far enough that the scent won’t disturb us.”

The vampire, for once, has no quip for her. He awkwardly pulls himself back into the skiff, his eyes trained on the bodies as she pushes off the shore once again. 

\--

  
  


Jaime dreams of Cersei, of her cruel beauty and even crueler words.

She appears garbed in the blood-red of their house, her face twisted in a sneer that does nothing to diminish her allure. If anything, it’s what he craves the most about her. 

“Brother, you’ve been away from me for too long.” She slinks toward him until she’s close enough for him to reach, but he can’t move for some reason. “Am I no longer enough for you?” She trails a sharp finger down his bare chest, a streak of crimson blood following the path of her touch. “Do you not miss the taste of my cunt?” She leans down to lick the blood, her eyes locked with Jaime’s the entire time and then she kisses him, with the coppery taste of his own life on her tongue.

The scene shifts, hazy in that illogical way of dreams. She’s naked beneath him, her legs curled around him, her fingernails clawing at his back as he fucks her as hard as she likes. He’s so close to coming, her cries of ecstasy so loud they almost pain him. She sinks her fangs into his neck, but that’s not quite right, and when he jerks away from her it’s Aerys’s face staring back at him. 

Jaime struggles to wakefulness. He’s hard and nauseated, the dream images of Cersei and Aerys tangling and merging into a nightmare.

He throws off the cloak the beast had covered him with to keep him safe from the sun and rolls until he can lift himself into a seated position. The first thing his eyes focus on is the beast asleep, her pale skin cast gold by the setting sun. He may loathe her, but some part of him can’t help the sudden pulsing desire to  _ bite _ . To ruin that purity and watch the trickle of blood smear across that milk-white skin of her neck.

The beast finally senses his gaze and wakes like the soldier she is, one minute asleep and the next fully alert. In the dimming light of dusk, she is suddenly awash in pink. Her eyes take him in, adjusting to the consuming darkness. He knows the moment she notices the still-hard outline of his cock, can see the heat rush into her cheeks. It does nothing to calm the hungry craving in his gut. 

“Like what you see, beast?” Jaime drawls.

The beast’s heart starts pounding at that, a tripping rabbit-like thump-thump-thump. It doesn’t matter that it’s fury and not arousal that courses through her veins, it’s intoxicating all the same. If he were free, he would take her now. No strength she possesses could possibly be enough, not when he’s so starved and primed for the sweet relief of a real meal. 

She stands and walks away from him into the woods. Jaime can hear her splashing in the nearby stream. He wonders if she’s nude, if her body is bathed in moonlight, rendering her skin nearly silver. He imagines the muscles, obvious even beneath her armor, rippling as she washes. He can practically see the beads of water catching on the tips of her hard, pale pink nipples, sluicing down her tight abdomen until they’re caught by the hair between her thighs.

He can nearly smell the heady scent of her cunt, can almost imagine the musk of her arousal, the way the blood flushes the swollen flesh between her legs.

Jaime can’t stand it anymore and palms his cock through the rough material of pants. It  _ hurts _ . The haunting image of Aerys is replaced by his sister’s cold green eyes, but in the seconds before he comes the scowling, awkward features of his captor obscure Cersei’s. He grimaces and tries to ignore the implications of his fantasy as he spends. 

\--

Brienne splashes water from the river on her face. She breathes desperately, running the cool liquid over the back of her neck. Her heart pounds in her chest. She wishes she could convince herself that it was all fear, the shock of awakening to be confronted with a vampire’s eyes trained on her. But that can’t explain the heat that flooded between her thighs, or why her nipples are tight even though it’s warm and she’s still fully clothed and armored. 

She tries to call to mind the last vampire she killed, the way it had ripped open the throat of a child in its rage of hunger. She feels sick at the memory and disgusted with herself for any twist of lust when the Lannister vampire skewers her with a look. 

“I need to bathe,” he says as soon as she’s visible again. 

“I don’t care what you need.” She sneers at him. She can see the shadow of him, barely lit by the pale moonlight that peeks through the cover of trees. 

“I know you’re a virgin,” he drawls, voice languid. “But surely even you know the smell of a man’s spend.”

Brienne flushes furiously as her mind identifies what that brackish odor is, all too familiar from nights in Renly’s camp. 

He  _ laughs _ . “If you’d rather I smell like stale come for the rest of the trip . . .”

She grimaces and stomps over, jerking him up by his chains. He smirks up at her and licks his bottom lip in a slow caress, catching it with his teeth, before leaving it wet and gleaming in the moonlight. She can’t seem to look away until those lips curl up into a knowing smile. She turns and drags him away toward the river. 

“Wash.” Brienne shoves him toward the water. He stumbles but moves not further.

“And how am I to wash properly fully clothed with my hands shackled?” He levels her with a furious stare. “Unchain me.”

“No,” she spits out. “Do you take me for a complete fool?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, I spilled in my pants so that I could overpower you, and what? Swim my way to King’s Landing when I’ve had naught more than a pittance of animal blood for over a year?” 

“You’ll wear your chains,” Brienne grits out.

“Then you’ll have to undress me.” His face lightens as if the idea is the best of japes. He tilts his hips forward and raises his shackled hands over his head. 

She sets her jaw, teeth grinding together, and jerks at the frayed knot that secures his pants. She tries to ignore that her breath seems to quicken in time with her pulse. He is a monster and she is -- she is better than this. 

She steps away and lets the pants fall to his ankles, where they catch on his ankle irons. 

“At least unchain my ankles,” he says. “Even if I do run, I’m not like to get very far without the use of my hands.”

Brienne stares at him, trying to discern his intent, but finds nothing beyond aggravation and sincerity. Finally, she goes to him and kneels, retrieving the key and unlocking the ankle cuffs. They fall from his ankles and she can see the raw skin underneath, not the sort of raw solely caused by friction, but a sickening, grotesque blistering of his flesh.

“Courtesy of your Lady Catelyn,” he snaps from above her. “You’ll find my wrists in a similar state.” 

“I --”

She doesn’t have the opportunity to finish whatever sentence was still forming in her head, because in a flash he shoves her to the ground, using his now-freed legs to restrain her own. He presses the chain linking his wrist irons to her throat, cutting off her supply of air. She chokes and gasps and throws her full weight against him, rolling them until he is pinned beneath her once more.

This time, though, he’s not so easily cowed as he was the first day. His eyes glint emerald in the dark, nearly glowing with a cold beauty. He snaps his teeth at her, fangs bared. The vampire struggles against her, still powerful even in his half-starved state. He angles his head, attempting to latch onto one of her forearms. Brienne yanks away by instinct and he uses her shock to roll them again, cuffing her across her temple, splitting the skin there. She can feel the warm blood trickle into her hair and watches as the vampire’s pupils dilate. 

Brienne is still dazed by the blow to her head, unable to stop him as he bends and licks at the wound. He lets free a moan like she has never heard, throwing his head back as if in ecstasy. 

He smirks at her, eyes glinting dangerous, as he says, “the tales were true. A virgin’s blood does taste the sweetest.”

Fury, like she has never known, explodes within her and she throws herself into him, forcing him on the ground so that she hovers above him. She grimaces at the crimson shine of her blood on his lips. Brienne knows she can outlast him, she has strength and nourishment on her side. He curls his legs around hers again, bracing to once again push her to the ground beneath him and she can feel his -- his  _ cock  _ against her thigh.

She should feel disgusted, but something about it makes her blood run hotter than any duel has ever caused. He must see something in her expression, because when he does shove her onto her back, he presses his hips into hers and shifts them so that she can feel the full, hard length of him 

He bends against to suck at the wound on her temple on more time, before leaning to whisper in her ear, “any time, beast. I’ll show you why women spread their legs and beg for my teeth.” 

Brienne gasps before she can stop herself and that’s when they hear the thundering of horse hooves. The vampire presses his hand over her mouth, a threat in his eyes should she dare to move. 

It’s all for naught, though. A company of at least a dozen men spills from the woods to surround them. 

Gooseflesh covers every inch of Brienne’s skin as the vampire whispers, “The Bloody Mummers,” in a tone that would frighten anyone.

\--


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bloody Mummers aren’t a good time. Brienne makes a difficult choice. Jaime remains pretty hangry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is exhausting. I’m honestly just so accustomed to sitting down and spitting out 1000-2000 words without really blinking. So, of course, this fic happened to me to make me realize what a FOOL I had been. A fool!!!
> 
> So, we continue to move along, skimming along the edge of canon as we start to diverge more and more. 
> 
> Thank you, as always, to bethanyactually who is working extra hard and having to read things more than once, including countless paragraphs of planning and plotting. And to Sass, Nire, Ro, Katie, and probably a bunch of other people I screamed at and made them promise to punch me in the face if I ever do canon-divergence that follows canon timeline EVER AGAIN.

Jaime only knows The Bloody Mummers -- The Brave Companions if one were to ask them, not that one should bother -- because they are his own father’s sellswords. They’re as untrustworthy as they are vicious, but they love gold and violence. The former his father has in spades and the latter he employs without hesitation. There are worse hunters to be accosted by; at least these men will recognize him. 

“What luck we have tonight, boys,” the leader shouts over his shoulder. “A vampire to satisfy our swords, and a whore to satisfy our cocks.” 

Jaime feels the beast freeze beneath him, even her breath stills. He rolls off of her and struggles to his feet, moving in front of her as she stands. He prays she won’t speak first. Or worse, draw her sword. 

Jaime curls his lips in a disdainful smirk. “To whom do we have the pleasure of speaking?” 

“Urswyck,” the man in front replies. “Urswyck the Faithful, and my band of Brave Companions.” 

“Ah,” Jaime says, adopting the air of self-importance his father taught him well. “Leadership has changed hands since last we met.” 

“We know who you are, there’s no need to put on airs,” Urswyck says with a sneer. “Your father sent us to track you down and drag you home from the Starks. Looks like we won’t have to dirty our weapons with much Northern blood after all.”

“You won’t have to dirty yourselves with any Northern blood.” Jaime jerks his head backward toward the beast. “My companion is Brienne of Tarth. That’s a southern isle, if you didn’t know. I’m afraid you’re too late in your mission. Lady Brienne here has already been set the task of leading me safely to King’s Landing.” 

“Aye, you look safe enough, cock out and wrists shackled.” The leer on Urswyck’s face turns Jaime’s stomach. “I didn’t think a Lannister would enjoy being trussed up like a calf. Does she fuck your arse, as well? She looks as if she’d have a good enough cock for it. You wouldn’t have to see her face that way. Or maybe you take turns and she’ll be primed for my men.” 

He can feel Brienne’s arm shift and knows she’s reaching for her sword. If she draws it, they’re both dead. The stupid beast should know that. But then, Jaime has never been faced with the threat of a gang rape, and the idea of these poor excuses for humans holding her down and brutalizing her awakens that long-dulled knightly honor within. He jabs her with an elbow. 

“She remains the _maid_ of Tarth.” Jaime hopes like the seven hells that she doesn’t open her mouth. “I intend to ransom her once we’re back to King’s Landing and my father arrests her for her part in this farce. You’ve heard of Tarth, I assume? The Sapphire Isle? So called because every sapphire in Westeros and half the sapphires in Essos are mined there.” He feels the beast’s eyes on him, and he knows if he looked, she would be frowning, indignant at his lies. “If you return her intact, I will promise you a quarter of the share. A Lannister always --”

“Pays his debts,” Urswyck finishes for him. Jaime can see the wheels spinning in Urswyck’s mind, albeit sluggishly. “Half the share.” 

Jaime bristles at the impertinence. “Fully intact, not just her maidenhead,” he says through gritted teeth, “and you’ll have your half.” 

\--

Days and nights pass in a blur of identical trees and the monotony of crude comments from their captors. They ride during the day. The Mummers have tied her to the vampire back-to-back. His litany of complaints and insults to her fades, one of the few things to mark the true passage of time. By the fourth day of riding, he’s all but silent. Instead, she jostles uncomfortably in the saddle, her wrists chafing from the rough rope tied around them, and listens as the vampire hisses every time a stray beam of sunlight breaks through the canopy of trees. 

When they stop on the fifth night, they’re left at their own, piddling fire. He watches her every night as she chews through the stale bread and swallows the burnt dregs of stew, hunger heavy in his gaze.

He’s dying.

Brienne knows it with certainty. From the sunken, pallid cheeks to the blisters that mar his exposed skin, he’s wasting away before her.

“They aren’t feeding you,” she says quietly. His expression shifts from hunger to anger in the blink of an eye. It would be more threatening if he didn’t look so wan. “It’s been days now and they at least give me scraps. If they’re taking you to your father for reward, why would they starve you?”

“They’re likely hoping I’ll give them a show,” he says with a tired version of his usual smirk, “hoping I’ll make good on my reputation and rip out your pretty little throat.”

Brienne feels a chill run down her spine as the truth of it hits her. 

“Why haven’t you?”

She watches as something on his face shifts, the smirk faltering and his eyes softening. 

“That’s not--” he starts to say something but stops himself. “I won’t let them win.” 

“What if you don’t have a choice?” 

His eyes move over her face and down her neck. They stop where her pulse beats a frantic rhythm in her throat. She watches his tongue flick against his lower lip before he slides his gaze back up. “There’s always a choice.”

She has no idea how near they are to King’s Landing, but from the look of him, he could be too far gone within hours. Without him, she has no chance. There’s only one solution. 

He’s wrong, sometimes there is no choice. 

She shuffles toward him, a watchful eye on their captors. He watches her warily as she comes to kneel in front of him. As she lifts her hands, he flinches. She has no idea what he could possibly fear from her, bound as she is. For a moment, she wants to soothe him like a scared animal, but she knows he wouldn’t thank her for it and what she’s about to do -- her hands begin to tremble as she uses her teeth to drag one of her sleeves down her arm, leaving her forearm bare. 

Brienne watches as his nostrils flare. He looks at her with confusion, his neck tensing as he holds himself away from her. 

She takes a bracing breath. 

“Can you feed from my arm?” she asks him, her voice low and vibrating with fear and nervous anticipation. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” He looks _furious_ as he says it.

She didn’t expect anger, not this cold, distant kind. “Can you?” She won’t waver from what needs to be done. He won’t cow her when no man or creature has before him. 

He stares at her, looking her in the eye as if daring her to blink first. “Yes,” he finally spits out.

“Then do it,” she tells him firmly. She presses her arm against his mouth and hopes he can’t feel the fine tremor she can’t quite control.

He looks at her for a long moment, fearful and hungry before he slowly opens his mouth, his lips like a caress against her thin skin. She gasps at the sharp, sudden pain when his fangs abruptly pierce her flesh. He closes his eyes as if in ecstasy. 

The feeling as he drinks from her is unlike anything she’s felt before. It should be disturbing, grotesque. It does disturb her, but there’s something about the gentle way his lips wrap around her in contrast to the sting of his fangs, and the drag of blood from her veins that is beautiful instead of hideous. 

He pulls away without prompting. Heat floods her body, settling low in the pit of her stomach at the slide of his tongue down her arm, chasing a trickle of blood that runs warm over her pale flesh. She whimpers, her hands trembling. His eyes catch hers again, pupils dilated, just a thin ring of bright green iris showing, and the heat in them is unmistakable now. It’s pure desire. Brienne has never seen it directed at her and it hits her with a bruising force, her mouth dry and tongue heavy with the desire it kindles in her own body.

Brienne licks her bottom lip and he moans, tracing the movement. In the blink of an eye, he reaches out and jerks her into his body. She’s half-sprawled across his lap, breathing heavily at the nearness of him when he looks so like the predator he is. 

“Why?” he asks, voice husky and rough, and not merely from days of disuse. 

“I couldn’t let you die,” she whispers in answer. “I need you.” He starts in surprise. She leans until her mouth is pressed against his ear. “We can’t escape without each other.”

\--

The incandescent pleasure of human blood is like no other feeling. Jaime’s spent so long without even a taste of it that the power that courses through his veins makes him light-headed. Even the bursts of sunlight burning his bare flesh can’t quite dampen the rush. 

“Do you like the feel of his fists knockin’ against your cunt with every step?” one of the Mummers asks, riding past them and smiling with a mouth full of broken, rotting teeth. 

She doesn’t say anything, staring blankly past Jaime’s shoulder. It’s a look he recognizes only too well, the face of someone that has gone away inside themselves, shutting out some horror they can’t afford to confront. 

The Bloody Mummers tied them face-to-face today, laughing all the while that they knew it was only a matter of time before he made her his whore. They’re pressed together, his legs slung over hers thigh-to-thigh, so close it would be more comfortable to tuck his forehead into the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Her arms are tied around his back, keeping them close; his are trapped between them, his still-shackled hands between their thighs, rubbing against them both in time with the rolling gait of the horse. 

That’s the point, he knows.

They want to torture both of them; him with the temptation of her pulse pounding against the thin skin, and her with the anticipation of the moment he snaps and rips out her throat, just as he ripped out his king’s. And if they can humiliate the both of them in the meantime, it’s all the sweeter. He won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing his hunger or his lust. He leans as far back as their ropes will allow until the only thing he can see is her homely face. The beast truly resembles the moniker: a jaw broader than his and just as square, a mouth too wide with lips too thick, a nose so crooked it must be at least twice-broken. 

Yet, somehow, with the taste of her blood still fresh in his mind, the only thing he can focus on is the angry blush that tints her skin and the shocking blue of her eyes. 

At some point, he drifts off again, startling awake and pulling his face from where it had settled into the crook of her neck during the ride. He chances a look at her face, but he has no idea if the pale cast and tight line of her lips is because of fear of how near he was or from whatever transpired while he was sleeping. 

They allow her a pittance of food, laughing that she’ll need it if she’s to be the fatted calf for him. It’s a short-lived reprieve. They must be watching, because as soon as she’s stuffed the last bit of bread into her mouth, the Mummers are upon them again, wrestling them into the same face-to-face position they rode in all day. He knows that her legs must be numb from the weight of his, or if they are not already, then they will be soon. The beast may be larger, but Jaime is no small man, even as underfed as he is.

The Mummers leave them with a final cackle. 

Jaime shifts forward, attempting to lift some of the weight from her legs. 

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

“Trying to take my weight off your legs,” he bites back. 

She doesn’t say any thanks, but she also stops shifting. 

“You passed out, today,” she mumbles, eyes trained at some far off point over his shoulder. 

“I slept,” he corrects. 

She snorts derisively. Her eyes flick to his for just a moment and for the first time, he sees vulnerability within them. “How often do you need to feed before you’re recovered?”

Jaime blinks, trying to suss out why she would ask. Whether it’s because that’s the outcome she desires or to make certain that he’ll stay weak enough to control. 

“From your arm? Never.” He lets that sink in, watches as she processes the answer. “I need more. That’s why my kind drinks from the neck,” he lets a smirk spread across his lips, “or that sweet spot on your inner-thigh.” 

The beast tilts her head to the side, exposing the entire length of her neck. It’s the only bit of her that could be considered elegant, graceful even. Her skin is a pure white, rendered all the more ethereal by the moonlight peeking through the canopy of trees. 

“Do it,” she grits out.

“Why?” Jaime’s mouth waters at the sight of her pulse beating frantically. 

“You have to get your strength back.” 

He watches her throat clench and release as she swallows, fear so heavy he can nearly taste it radiating from her.

“I could kill you.” He looks away from that fluttering vein in her neck to her face. Her eyes are clenched shut, a pink flush staining her cheeks. “I could kill you so easily.”

She takes a breath that shudders through her, heavy enough to press her chest fully against his own. “I trust you.” 

He freezes, feeling as if she’s slapped him. Her eyelids flutter open, her eyes wide and guileless, bluer than any sea, brighter than any star. There is fear in them, but there’s also -- she means it. She _trusts_ him. She’s as stupid as she is ugly.

When he doesn’t respond, doesn’t even move, she continues, “you stopped last night,” she says, “you’ll stop again.”

She says it so assuredly, with such a naive innocence, it seems to embed itself in his skin, pricking at the knightly honor he’s worked so hard to press deep inside. 

Jaime snarls and buries his fangs into that creamy expanse of skin. 

Her blood floods his mouth, saturating his tongue with the sweetest taste he’s ever known. Blood is blood; but like wine, some is better than others. The blood from her wrist may as well have been vinegar compared to the spiced honey wine of her throat. She gasps above him, arms tensing against his own, her body lifting toward his. For a moment, he thinks she’s trying to buck him off her, but then that gasp falls into a moan. 

He knows that moan. It’s not the moan of a dying man, nor of a child trapped in a nightmare. It’s a moan that tells him if he could reach between them he would find her hot and flushed, starting to dampen with need. He’s so hard it borders on painful. He presses against her stomach, pushing his cock against the unforgiving muscle. 

“Oh, Gods,” she chokes back the whimper, but tilts her head further, exposing more of her throat to him. 

Jaime pulls his face away, watching the blood pool up against the punctures his teeth made. “Let them hear.” He licks the jut of her jaw just to watch her shiver before whispering right against the delicate shell of her ear, “they already think you’re my whore. Let them believe that’s all this is.” She shakes her head. Before she has a chance to voice her protest, he nips at her ear in warning. “If they think you’re struggling,” he whispers fiercely, anger at her gods-be-damned stubbornness rising in his chest, “they won’t suspect what you’re truly doing.” 

He sinks his teeth back into her throat. She keens as he sucks more fiercely than before, dragging the blood from her in heavy pulls. Her breath pants out of her, her hips moving restlessly beneath his own. He can’t stop himself from rubbing against her, desperate for the friction against his aching flesh. 

Brienne’s cries climb higher and he continues to rut like the beast he is. When she chokes on a gasp, he tears himself away from her. She stares at him, panting heavily, a look of stunned wonder on her face, like a maiden brought to climax for the first time. 

He licks her blood from his lips. Her eyes trace the movement; his watch as a drop trickles from his bite down her neck to stain her shirt, spreading like a flower blossoming. 

Something shifts within him. She looks at him in awe, that naive belief in his restraint still shining brightly. He wants nothing more than to ease into her -- cock between her thighs, teeth in her neck -- and ruin that purity, make her his his _his_. The want burns in his veins, greater than any physical hunger he’s ever felt. He knows he’s lost, but with her taste on his lips and her warm body against his, he can’t find it within him to care.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there's a sexy, sexy feeding, at least one orgasm, and an escape . . . attempt!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit shorter than the last couple, but, it was for a Reason as you will discover. Now, the upside to this is that I know exactly what I want the next chapter to be _and_ now that I've got the goddamn action sequence out of the way, I can focus a bit more on relationship building! Yay! The stuff I actually enjoy doing. 
> 
> Also, in the next chapter, you're basically going to get Jaime's backstory. So. If this chapter seems short, let that tide you over.
> 
> Thanks to bethanyactually, as always, for betaing this really quickly. Remaining mistakes are my own. She likely would've liked a second pass at this one, but I am, also as always, a pain. 
> 
> I'm also posting because sassbewitchedmyass had a rough week and I love her enough to post a shorter chapter than normal.

The Mummers take turns with the watch, but they’re getting lazier where she and the vampire are concerned. They laughed when they saw the marks on her neck and the new flush to his cheeks, but they haven’t separated them. They don’t seem to realize what Brienne’s motive is; they only believe that she’s what they’ve accused her of all along. If anything, they only increase the taunts, accusing her of all sorts of depraved acts that make her blush furiously. 

The vampire is . . . different with her blood coursing through him. His eyes are bright, his cheeks no longer pallid, his smirk easier, his body sings with power. When they’re tied together, her back against a tree and a rope around her waist, him straddling her thighs, there’s something light about him. 

“In the morning,” he whispers, leaning closer. “If I feed again, I’ll be strong enough. Not completely back to normal, but enough to kill the Mummers.”

Brienne can feel the nerves build inside of her, fear that she can’t fall prey to a heavy weight in her stomach. “What about the cuffs?”

“I could kill them with my legs still shackled, too.” He smirks, brazen, and strangely joyous in a way it wasn’t when he was hungry. “When they untie us in the morning, I need you to grab the nearest one’s sword.” He looks over her shoulder. “I’ll be able to take the other one and his weapon.” He looks her in the eyes once more, no longer twinkling with excitement, but focused on her and only on her. “I hope you’re as good with a sword as you claim. With any luck, the others will still be half-asleep. If they aren’t--” he blinks and tilts his head, as if caught by surprise. It’s gone in a flash and his lips curve once more. “It’s been lovely to taste you.”

She doesn’t answer him, doesn’t have the words. Instead, she simply tilts her head, exposing the bruised holes in her neck. Her breath catches in her chest at the low noise he makes. He runs his nose along her throat, breathing deeply, and she nearly wants to cry for the feeling that builds within her the moment before his fangs sink into the still tender wounds. She can’t help the muffled whimper as his hot mouth forms a seal against her skin. 

A shock of sensation flows directly from her throat until it settles low in her stomach and between her thighs. She’s only felt it with his teeth inside her, her life flowing into him, nourishing him even as it drains her. There’s a power in knowing that she’s his only source of hope, and even more in the way she feels his body roll against her as if trying to get even closer than they’ve been tied. 

The vampire pulls away from her abruptly, his pupils blown wide, a curious quirk of one eyebrow. He licks the blood from his lips even as his mouth turns up in a dangerous smile. He shifts and his hands brush against the heat between her legs. Her mouth forms an ‘o’ of surprise, her stomach tightening at the burst of feeling. 

“I can smell you,” he says, voice low and warm and dangerous. 

The humiliation swamps her. She closes her eyes, trying to shut him out. “Please,” she says, and hates the vulnerability in her voice, “just -- just drink.” 

He doesn’t move for so long that she forces herself to look at him again, nerves winning out over embarrassment. The moment her eyes lock with his, he deliberately moves his hands against her, an expression of such intensity on his face that it makes her tremble from head-to-toe with the promise in it. Then he leans in and drinks, tongue moving against her neck in the same rhythm his hands move between her thighs. 

Brienne has never felt anything quite like it, the shock of each brush of his hands against the heat of her. She can feel the pressure rise within her, can feel when her breeches start to stick to her damp skin. It should be humiliating, she knows, but the twisting, coiling sensation and rising heat and the way her breath seems to stutter through her chest eclipse any embarrassment. It’s like the rush of battle, the jolt of sword against sword. 

She rolls her hips against his hands, seeking more, more, more. The vampire rubs her harder, pressing into her wet folds, the roughspun fabric of her breeches abrading the sensitive skin. He shifts, tilting his hands just so, and his thumb rubs against that place at the apex of her cunt and she bites her lip so hard it nearly bleeds. She keens, her whole body tensing. It’s not unlike the previous night when he bit her, but it’s somehow more. So much more. 

He pulls away from her looking at her as if searching for an answer. His own chest rises and falls, panting just as heavily as she is. Her body trembles beneath him, and even the feeling of warm blood slipping down her neck can’t distract her from the way her muscles spasm, desperately clutching for something that isn’t there. 

He seems to come back to himself, swallows and says, “I wonder if your cunt tastes as good as your blood.” 

She gasps, in shock, and at the feeling that jolts through her like lightning. Her mouth won’t seem to work, all of the sharp comments and accusations tangling in her mind and freezing on her tongue.

He blinks and looks away from her, licking his bottom lip. 

“Rest,” he says, not looking at her. “You’ll need to be ready.”

\--

Jaime can still smell her. He has a harder and harder time thinking of her as ‘the beast’. He knows how sweet her blood is, how heady the scent of her arousal. His mouth waters at the idea of putting his face between those powerful thighs, biting at the tender flesh there, licking her hot cunt until she comes and the taste of it mingles with her blood. 

He misses his sister, powerfully. Or rather, he misses when he thought she was the only one. The memory of her taste is faded now. He remembers that her blood was sharp and hot. If Brienne is honey wine, Cersei is a richly sour Dornish red. He hasn’t tasted her since she married, since someone else had a right to her body. 

The sun rises over the horizon and he shakes the beast awake more violently than necessary. 

“Are you ready?” he asks. 

“Yes,” she answers, voice husky with sleep, but her eyes are sharp, alert. 

She always wakes that way. 

He hears the rustle of leaves and the snap of twigs as the Mummers approach. They always send two to untie them for the morning. Jaime can feel the monster coil within him, the animal part he denies but that lurks in the dark recesses of his mind. He keeps his eyes locked with hers. He can feel her muscles tighten, feel her prepare in those minute ways he recognizes in his own body. 

The moment he feels her hands drop away, he nods to her and launches himself off of her, spinning around, catching the Mummer nearest him in his mouth with the silver cuffs around his wrists, grabbing the sword at the Mummer’s waist as he reels back. He glances quick enough to see the beast has unsheathed the other Mummer’s own sword to use against him, his face stunned and then blank as she shoves the blade through his stomach. 

With that, Jaime has no attention to spare to her well-being, there’s only survival and balance, the feel of a sword in his hands and flesh in his mouth. It wouldn’t be a challenge with his hands free, but it’s not impossible even with his his wrists bound together. He hears the beast grunting with every lunge, can hear the spill of entrails and thump of bodies and the lighter impact of limbs. He knows in the back of his mind that she’s alive, that she hasn’t been injured, the only sounds from her throat those of power as she swings. 

There’s one cry of pain, but he barely had time to acknowledge it before the next Mummer attacks. She has sworn she’s capable of taking even his kind at full strength. The Mummers, still hazy with sleep and unpracticed with swords, should be no problem. 

He slices his through the thigh of the last Mummer standing, using his teeth to rip through the flesh of his neck, until the blood pours like a fountain, thickly sick-tasting in his mouth. 

Chest heaving, he turns to find the beast standing with the Mummers dead at her feet, covered in blood and panting. She stares at him across the clearing, something wild in her eyes that matches the battle-fury within his own body. He strides across the clearing, no thought in his mind, only need, the pull of her, the scent of her blood shining above that of the rotten men that surround them. He wants. 

He grabs her and pulls her into him. She doesn’t fight, when he takes her mouth in a vicious kiss, blood still heavily painted across his face. She opens her mouth to his on a startled, nearly frightened gasp. His tongue presses into her mouth, tasting her, passing the flavor of that heady mixture of death and life to her. Her hands clutch at him, her mouth beginning to move beneath his own. He slides his hands down from her collar along her sides and then she nearly collapses, a scream of pain tearing from her throat. 

Jaime looks down and sees the excruciatingly deep slice through her side, the white flash of bone visible and nauseating. Her knees go weak as if in a faint and he catches her beneath the arms, slowing her fall until she lies on the forest floor. 

He grips her cheeks, desperate, and growls, “do not close your eyes.”

“Can’t,” she groans, whimpering. 

Her eyes flutter shut and his gut clenches. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things go southerly for Brienne, Jaime makes some questionable choices, people don’t come in their pants, and Jaime reveals some Information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as ALWAYS to bethanyactually for such a speedy beta. I do not deserve her, truly. 
> 
> Thanks to meditationsinemergencies, Nire, sassbewitchedmyass, and girls_like_girls for continued support and letting me either send them excerpts to reassure me like the insecure mess I am, or to at least support me by letting me scream my insecurities. 
> 
> Also, I think I’ve responded to all comments but TRULY the support for this story has been so amazing. Every single comment has made the occasionally painful process so beyond worth it. This chapter actually came together in two days, so maybe now that we’re in the meat of the story things will be a little smoother.

Chapter Four

Brienne wakes to a burning pain in her side that eclipses everything. The sun is high in the sky. She can’t seem to -- she remembers the escape, the fighting, the sight of the vampire with blood soaking his shirt. She remembers the taste of blood in her own mouth as his tongue brushed her own, but her memory is fuzzy, blank spaces riddling the events until they seem almost dream-like. The vampire is suddenly in her line of vision, his face tight with an expression that may be worry. She tries to sit, but the slightest of moves takes her breath away and turns her stomach. 

He frowns at her and places a hand on her shoulder, not holding, just resting there. 

She opens her mouth to ask where they are, what happened, why he’s still there, but all that comes out is a long, low groan. 

“Don’t move,” he says, voice clipped. “You’ll start bleeding again.”

He moves out of her line of sight. 

Brienne blinks up at the canopy of trees, the sunlight breaking through in bright little bursts. She must be on a bedroll; there’s no bite of rocks or twigs against her back. She tries to _think_ , but the only thing she knows is that she hurts and the vampire is still there and she doesn’t know why. 

“What happened?” she asks, voice scratchy and raw. 

“You tried to see if a Mummer could cut you in half from the look of it. Here.” His face comes back into view, and he places a hand beneath her head and lifts her enough to pour a sip of water from a goblet into her parched mouth. “I patched you up as well as I could to stop the bleeding. We’ll have to rest until you’re healed enough to move.” 

“Why?” She desperately tries to fill in the gaps in her fuzzy mind. 

“Because,” he begins acerbically, lifting an eyebrow that could only be termed judgmental, “you only have so much blood and if you lose enough, you die.”

“No.” She tries to shake her head, but it only makes her dizzy. “Why are you still here?”

He looks away from her, his jaw clenching, teeth grinding. When he turns back to face her, it’s with a strange intensity that she hasn’t seen before -- one that isn’t merely violence or desire. 

“You kept me alive.”

He’s gone as soon as he says it. 

She wants to call him back. She wants to know why he didn’t drain her of her remaining blood and run back to his family. She wants to point out that she had to save him because she had needed him. 

He doesn’t need her. He’s free to leave. 

But, somehow, illogically, he’s here and she can smell the familiar scent of campfire stew as darkness closes in around her once again. 

\--

Jaime keeps watch over her, only leaving her side to hunt. She fades in and out of consciousness for days. On good days she’s awake for long enough for him to spoon-feed her broth with chunks of hare or venison, when he’s unlucky it’s only squirrel, leaving them both hungry. On bad days, she’s not fully awake long enough to properly eat anything. 

Then the fever sets in. Brienne shakes and sweats. Every time she flails even slightly, she lets out a choked scream of pain, throat too hoarse for much sound. 

He has no idea how far they are from help, and even if they were near a castle, Brienne can’t move, the wound in her side weeping a viscous, green, foul-smelling pus. 

Jaime has no idea how long she has, but not much longer. He doesn’t know why the thought makes him sick, why he can’t bear the idea of her death, of her dying for _him_. She will die _because_ of him. 

He also knows as deep as his tarnished soul that if he does what his instinct calls for, she will hate him. She may kill him, and he may let her. 

Jaime also knows he has to try anyway. 

The next time she wakes enough to eat, she looks at him and he can tell she knows that she’s dying. 

“Promise me,” she says quietly. 

He gazes into her eyes, glassy with fever and sickness. “Promise you what?”

“That you’ll save Sansa Stark.” She closes her eyes on a blink so long he worries she’s gone again. “Promise me you will deliver her to her mother.”

Brienne is pleading with him. She trusts him against all reason and that makes what he’s about to do so much harder. 

“I won’t promise,” he says and she flinches, hurt painted broadly across her features that he can’t think of as homely anymore. “You’ll come with me and save her yourself.”

At his insistence, she briefly smiles sadly. “Just promise me, please.”

He looks away from her, can’t bear to look into her eyes when he’s going to betray and break that open-hearted belief. 

“You need to eat,” he says and grabs the bowl at his hip. He dips the spoon into the stew and holds it to her mouth. She opens willingly, swallowing the food greedily. 

When she seems satiated, he grabs for the wineskin behind him and presses it to her mouth for a drink. 

The moment she swallows the stream he pours between her lips, her eyes widen with the horror he expected but never wanted to see.

“What did you --” 

But she knows what he did, she must. There’s no doubting the coppery, thick taste that is unlike any wine or water. 

“You know what I am.” He keeps his voice as flat and cold. “You’ve called me ‘monster’ enough times.”

He leaves her then. He has to get away from whatever protest she wants to lodge. He wants to apologize to her, wants to explain, but he doesn’t even fully understand the clenching, gut-twisting need for her to live that he feels. 

She protests, calling out to him, injecting, “Vampire!” with as much venom as she can muster.

He ignores her and heads into the woods to find actual prey he can rip apart and feel nothing. 

\--

Brienne _knows_ because the next time her eyes open she’s healed. She sits up without pain, feels the wound at her side, closed but scarred, through the hole in her tunic. The moonlight is faint overhead, but she can see with near perfection. She can hear her heartbeat, but her lungs are still in her chest and she pulls in a breath to stop the spinning sensation in her head. Her body feels . . . odd, powerful in ways she hasn’t felt before, but with a hunger that crawls through her like a demon.

She feels him -- the vampire -- not like eyes upon her, she simply knows where he is. He’s behind her and slightly to her right side. She hears the beating of his heart and the flow of blood in his veins. It sends a chill down her spine. 

There’s something else twisting in her mind, regret and apprehension that feels like the fluttering of butterfly wings at the nape of the neck. It’s only when she turns to see him, and sees the look on his face, and the faint jolt of surprise when their eyes meet, that she realizes it’s him, his emotions brushing against her own. 

Somehow, those feelings, the fact that he is invading her mind after what he’s done to her, infuriates her. 

“How could you do this to me?” she asks him, voice hoarse with disuse. 

“We were too far from a maester,” he answers, as if that’s enough of an explanation. “Your wound was festering.” 

“I didn’t _want_ this.” The anger swamps her in a burning rage that kindles a flame deep within. 

He looks at her for a drawn-out moment before he simply says, “Then you shouldn’t have died.”

She launches herself at him, forcefully shoving him into the ground and growling at him. Her fangs cut her lip as she opens her mouth, and even the taste of her own blood awakens something within.

Brienne bites him. The taste of the blood in his veins isn’t quite right. It’s stale, a pale imitation of something she craves. But the minute her teeth sink into his flesh, she feels a wave of arousal so powerful that it blurs and bleeds into the rage until she’s not sure if she wants to tear him apart or pull him in. She doesn’t know if the desire is his or hers or if it matters where it started. All she knows is that she’s burning from the inside out and she _needs._

She pulls back to glare down at him, at the awestruck look on his face, at the way his lips part and his tongue darts out to lick. She kisses him then, bruisingly, teeth and split lips and blood and anger and lust. In no time at all, he’s hard against her thigh. Her pulse thrums in time with his, and all of that scorching anger seems to flood into a different heat between her legs. 

The vampire thrusts up, pressing his stiff length against the sensitive flesh. Brienne tears her mouth away from him, breathing deeply on reflex and staring down at him, at the heat in his eyes, the strange tint of hope. They pause, frozen by the weight of the decision to be made. The cycle of emotions within her is dizzying. She feels her own thirst and the warm twist of desire. She feels his lust and a rush of anticipation. 

He reaches for the hem of her shirt, his hand delving beneath to settle against the flesh of her waist. He grips her as if testing her reaction. All she feels is the need for him to touch her more, to feel those rough hands over every inch of her skin, to calm the singing of her nerves. 

Brienne braces herself and then pulls the shirt over her head, leaving herself exposed in the dull moonlight. His eyes trace over her entire body, landing on her meager breasts, but then he hauls himself up and his mouth latches around one of her nipples, drawing it into his mouth. She gasps and grips his hair in a wrenching hold. He all but purrs against her, scraping the edge of a fang against the hardened tip. 

That’s all it takes. They tear at each other’s clothing until they’re both naked and tense with thirst. He takes her mouth again, palming a breast and reaching his other hand between her thighs to dip between her wet folds. She keens, curling in on herself at the tide of feeling that tingles from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. 

The vampire leans in and whispers against her ear, “I want to taste your cunt,” his breath is hot and damp against her ear and she can’t contain the whimper his words cause. 

“Oh gods, yes,” she groans and allows him to flip her over so she’s on her back. 

He looms over her, grinding his hips into hers. She leans up and pulls him down into a vicious kiss, drawing his bottom lip into her mouth and clamping it with her blunt teeth. He groans and pulls away only to trail tiny bites and kisses down her neck, over her collarbone, stopping just long enough to draw both nipples to peaks and send a nearly unbearable wave of sensation to her -- her cunt. 

Brienne writhes beneath him, trying to simultaneously get closer and pull away from the overwhelming sensations. His tongue briefly dips into her navel before he slides her thighs apart, settling his shoulders between them. He stops long enough that she opens her eyes to look, only to find him with a dangerous smile on his lips and a promise in his eyes. 

He keeps his gaze on her as he lowers his head and draws a deep breath through his nose, humming in contentment. Her muscles twitch when he places an unexpectedly gentle kiss against her thigh. Her legs try to close by instinct, the unfamiliar feeling of another person between them pressing in against the haze of want and yearning for more. Then he clamps that tender flesh in a bite, piercing the skin with his fangs and letting loose a groan that echoes through the forest as she yelps at the sharp burst of pain. 

He lifts his head with a lick against the blood pooling in the wounds. “I’ll miss the taste of your blood, but I have a feeling this,” he brushes his thumb through the curls to touch that bud at the apex of her slit and sends her stomach swooping, “this is going to taste so much sweeter.”

She can’t help the guttural cry that tears from her throat as he finally presses his tongue between her folds to taste the wetness there. He licks inside of her and around her and sucks her nub into his mouth. She’s lost to the newness of the pleasure. There’s nothing she can compare it to, nothing that even comes close and when he pushes his fingers into the very core of her, she shatters like glass, fragile and shaking beneath his hands and mouth.

When he crawls back up to kiss her, it’s with the musky taste of her own pleasure on his lips. He stops to whisper, “I was right. It is sweeter.” 

Brienne can feel his cock still hard against her hip as he shifts back and forth, seeking his own release. He nips at her jaw, his every movement languid. 

“I want to fuck you,” he says, pulling her earlobe into his mouth. “I’ve wanted to be inside of you since that first night. I could smell you, delicious and warm and alive. And untouched.” 

It should infuriate her, but it feels like his hand is still between her thighs, stroking her higher and higher. She wants to know what it’s like, her cunt twitching and clenching over and over as if seeking something it’s been denied. 

“You called me ugly as an aurochs,” she reminds him, cringing at how breathless she sounds. 

“Mmm,” he hums in agreement, one hand trailing up and down her ribcage, the other bracing him next to her shoulder. He looks at her intently, licks his lips and continues, “you’re as strong as an aurochs.” He moves his hand from her side to brush a sweaty strand of hair from her forehead. “You’re not beautiful.” She can feel the truth in those words, settling with painful familiarity beneath her breast. “But you’re . . . intoxicating.” That word bursts through her like a lightning bolt of hunger, from him, from her, from them both. “Pretty women are in every town, every village, but there’s no one else quite like you.”

He kisses her viciously and an emotion swells within her, so visceral and consuming that she can do nothing more than give herself over and groan, “Do it.” 

The vampire positions himself at her entrance, staring her in the eye as he pushes into her with a single movement. Her back arches off the ground, her arms wrapping around his torso, nails clawing at the bare, damp skin. He thrusts into her with bruising force. She keens and groans, no thought as to whether the sounds are ugly. The noises he makes are no less guttural, he moans and grunts, holding her hip hard enough that she knows she’ll bruise. 

Brienne lifts her leg to curl around him, opening herself further. She can feel him begin to shake and he takes the hand from her hip to slide it between them, rubbing in furious circles above where he moves in and out of her. 

She comes again, screaming while she clenches around him, as if her body wants to drag him further inside and hold him within while she throbs in a heavy, pulsing rhythm. He continues to push in and out of her, growing more desperate until he pauses, pressing into her even more firmly and shuddering with release.

The vampire presses his sweat-dampened forehead against her temple, still shivering with the aftershocks. Brienne stares up at the moonlight, the weight of what just happened hitting her like a morningstar to the gut. 

\--

The scrapes on his hands and knees burn, but he knows they’ll heal quickly. He can hear Brienne pulling her breeches and tunic back on, listens as she hisses when the roughspun wool abrades the scrapes down her back. The uneasiness rolls off of her in waves, matching the unsettled feeling in his own gut. He took her like an animal, brutal and unforgiving on a forest floor. 

She’s newly reborn and he can remember that hunger that borders on painful, like you’ve not eaten in weeks and are starving for the one thing that can sate you. He took her hunger, matched it with his own and tainted it with his yearning for her until it became a depraved tangle of hatred and lust. 

“I think --” she begins and he turns toward her, to find her hunched over and looking into the forest. “I think I need to eat.”

Nausea brushes against his mind as she speaks. “You do.” She glances over at him, wide eyes, bruised lips, and beard-burnt skin. “You’ll still be weak until you eat properly. Human blood would be better, but --”

He cuts himself off at the expression that contorts her face. She’s still furious, her every muscle coiled and taut with it, but she’s also -- she’s sad, her blue eyes soft and desperate. The tumult of it settles like a weight in his gut. 

“I’ll hunt,” he offers. He looks away from her first. “You should rest.”

He finds hares and squirrels. They’ll suffice, but she’ll have an even harder time recuperating with so little. He finally spots a fox, his lips curling into a smile. 

Jaime lays it at her feet when he returns. She’s curled in on herself staring into a campfire they no longer need, but light out of habit. He feels the ripple of disgust as she stares at the animal. He takes a seat across from her and sinks his fangs into one of the hares, drinking enough to take the edge off his thirst. 

He looks back up to find her, knees pulled up, arms around them and head turned away from the fox. 

“Would you rather have a hare?” Her head snaps up at his question, fear tinging her features.

“No,” she answers quietly. Her mouth twists as she looks at the fox once again before staring into the middle distance. 

“You’ll die if you don’t eat,” he tells her, anger bubbling in his chest. 

“I know.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, small and tight. 

“I’m sure Lady Catelyn will be delighted to know you fell upon your own sword instead of fulfilling your oath.” His voice is a whip, he knows, lashing out at her and seeking some tender expanse of flesh.

She recoils from it. “How dare you.”

“How dare I?” He curls his lip as he tilts his head. “I don’t remember Lady Catelyn saying that you had to remain of the living, simply that her daughter be returned to her still human. If you want to throw away your honor simply because of a bump --”

“You _killed_ me,” she interrupts him, her voice loud enough to echo through the forest. 

“You died,” he spits at her. “I gave you a _choice_.”

Brienne scoffs. “You made me a _monster_ ,” she says, voice thick with disgust. 

He goes still, his entire person retreating from that familiar insult and the level of genuine disdain that pours from her in a waterfall of emotion.

“Be craven then,” he says, trying to adopt a disaffected tone. “I’ll be sure to send my regards to your father when I reach King’s Landing.”

He feels that hit her, mention of her family finally piercing the hatred. With an expression like a wounded animal, she reaches for the fox at her feet. She holds its limp form in her hands, her arms nearly dwarfing the creature. She looks near tears as she bites its neck and sucks blood from the wounds. 

Brienne’s distress crawls inside of him, burrowing into the remnants of his soul he keeps hidden. “You don’t have to be a monster.” Her head snaps up, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. 

Her eyes narrow at him. “Of course,” she bites out. “I can either be a monster or an oathbreaker.” Her head tilts, her face twisting with ill-fitting cruelty. “Or I could be both. You could teach me, couldn’t you?”

The urge to snap her neck is sudden and vicious. That’s what she means, of course. What it is to be a monster. Those cravings for violence and death and the taste of someone’s life as you drain it from them. On the basest of levels, the need to kill so that you may live. These men and boys clashing swords for a castle have no idea what life or death really means, what they really _feel_ like.

“Oh yes,” he says instead, voice languid, and mockingly honey-sweet. “I can tell you what it feels like for a child accused of stealing an apple to be placed before you and for your _King_ to demand your teeth in his neck as punishment.” She blanches and he can feel the horror just beginning to creep up her spine. “I can teach you how to find that point in a person’s neck that will let the blood flow from them like a furious river, so that maybe, just maybe, they’ll suffer a little less.” He leans toward her, eyes glinting, an unworthy pleasure at her nausea. “I’ll even explain what it means to choose whether to let the whole world burn or to set yourself on fire instead.”

Her lips tremble, mouth opening on a question. But he knows what she’ll ask. Or perhaps he doesn’t, but he knows the question he needs to answer. The burden he’s carried for so long is too much when laid at his feet as an accusation by a woman -- by a woman he can’t bear to let believe the lie. 

“Tell me, Brienne,” his voice curls around her name like a wisp of smoke. “If your King demanded your life, your eternal devotion, would you say yes? You swore to obey your King, to protect the realm, to honor your father and house. Would you do it?” Her mouth moves again, but he presses on, as if a dam has burst and everything is pouring from him with no consideration of himself or her. “If your King was slowly descending into madness and everyone knew it; if, say, his people called him mad, what would you do? If your Mad King demanded a city with half a million citizens to be burned to ash by wildfire, would you allow him?”

“What are you saying?” she asks faintly, her voice wavering. 

Jaime drops his head, shaking it, trying to clear the memory of that night. The smell of burnt flesh that never quite left the throne room in those final days. The sounds of his father’s army in the distance, laying siege to the gates of the city. The sight of Aerys flailing and demanding his pyromancer. 

“He had caches of wildfire hidden throughout the city,” he says, still not looking at her. “He was mad enough that he would rather burn the city to the ground and arise from the ashes, the dragon he was meant to be, rather than cede power to anyone or anything.” He laughs humorlessly. “He really believed it, too.” He does turn his gaze back to her then, finding her face open and curious and horrified. “He thought if he set the world on fire, he would be the one left. He didn’t care if he only had ruins to rule over, as long as he ruled.

“When he called for his pyromancer and demanded he set the city on fire--” Jaime presses down the bile that rises in his throat every time he remembers that night. “I had a choice to make.” He sets his jaw and stares her in the eye, unflinching. “I chose to save the people of King’s Landing in exchange for my vow. I would do it again. A thousand times over.” 

“Do--” her voice quavers. “Do other people know?”

“No.” He smirks viciously. “After all, who would believe a monster?” He waves her off as she opens her mouth to say more. He’s not quite finished, one final confession clawing at his chest for release. “I haven’t had human blood since that night,” he tells her, _knowing_ she can feel the truth in those words, “not until you offered yourself.” 

Her body jolts, shock shuddering through her and reverberating through his own body, so strong it almost feels like his own. He retreats slightly, leaning away from the fire, nodding just slightly at the bleeding fox she still holds limply in her hands. 

“I told you.” He picks up a hare and runs his thumb down its soft fur, right over where he snapped its neck. He lifts his eyes to hers. She hasn’t moved, still trying to make sense of everything he just laid at her feet like so much prey. “There’s always a choice.” She blinks at him, owlishly, stunned. “Eat.”

Her eyes flick from the fox and back to him a few times and then she lifts the animal back to her mouth, but she doesn’t look away as she drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To allay some fears, hopefully, in the next couple of chapters you will find out more of how vampires work and their place in Westerosi society. You’ll also find out who JAIME’S sire was (feel free to speculate wildly). Brienne will actually be able to react to The Deflowering now that she isn’t so hangry (I haven’t forgotten we’ll need the fall out from her POV). Uh. And hopefully anything else that seemed glossed over here for the sake of the emotional intensity of The Moment will he answered. 
> 
> THANKS!!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jaime actually explains some things. We find out who sired Jaime. We even find out _how_ vampires came to Westeros! 
> 
> Of course, there's also sex. And feelings!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter does include a pretty graphic/descriptive scene of Jaime and Brienne killing an elk. Hopefully, it's not more than one would expect from vampires that eat animals and it's only one paragraph, but it does actually include how the animal is killed, etc. 
> 
> Other than that, expect the general. Vampire typical violence and some explicit sexy times.

Brienne feels him like a ghost inside her. No, not a ghost. Something more palpable than a ghost. His blood is in her veins, his thoughts like a whisper against her own, a heaviness between her thighs where -- she flushes simply remembering the feel of him moving in and out of her. The hunger and fury and lust that eclipsed everything else, so that all she could think was _take_. 

She wishes she could blame it all on him, that the lust was from him alone, but she knows herself and she knows the heat that settled in her before she lunged at him and bit him and _took_.

Without a word, he constructs a tent of sorts, hanging cloaks he must have looted from the Mummers between trees, tying them together. It’s only as she watches him knot a rope that she realizes --

“What happened to your cuffs?” 

He startles at the sound of her voice and looks over his shoulder at her. “The key was on one of the Mummers.” He shrugs. “I had a lot of time to work out how to unlock them.” He smirks, a small thing that no longer has a cut to it, but rather a wary sort of hope. She can feel the nerves, almost fear, tickling at her like a feather. 

“I have questions,” she says, hesitantly. 

He nods, finishes the knot, and slowly makes his way to sit before her. 

Once he’s before her, looking at her intently with a reserve she’s never seen in his face before -- it’s as if a switch has been flipped between them. Where there was, if not hatred, then at least antipathy, now there is only an unsure hesitance. 

The fox he brought has barely taken the edge off the vicious hunger, but something else has settled between them. The wall between them has crumbled, laid waste on the very ground where she transformed from honorable lady to dishonored creature. 

“Will this feeling go away?” she finally asks him, refusing to give in to the urge to break the intense eye contact between them. 

“The hunger or the --” he seems to hesitate, and she blushes again, even with the scratches on her back still healing. 

“Both.” 

“The hunger won’t.” He looks regretful but not quite repentant. “Animal blood will keep you alive, if not as strong as human blood, but it won’t quell the hunger in quite the same way.” 

She pulses with fear, the idea that she’ll break, that she won’t be able to ignore the desperate feeling in her every muscle. 

“How do you do it?” She can feel the fine tremble in her limbs. “I want to --” 

“You want to rip into someone and drink them until they’re nothing?” 

She wants to cry. Her every emotion feels like a storm within her, crackling like lightning, shaking like thunder. All she can do is nod. 

“It gets easier to ignore it,” he says hesitantly. “I still feel it but -- I don’t _want_ to do those things. My body wants to, but my mind doesn’t.” He must be able to feel her confusion, because he continues, “I’m hungry for the taste and power, but -- it’s a choice, Brienne. It’s always a choice.” 

She feels the confidence, the certainty within him that she, too, can make the choice not to give in, even if she doesn’t quite believe it now. 

“Most vampires give up.” He sighs and looks away from her briefly. “It’s the easiest thing in the world to give in. Drinking you was like finding an oasis in the sands of Dorne. I had forgotten what it was like. It makes you stronger, faster. It makes you feel...like you can do anything.”

“But you don’t give in.”

It’s not really a question, but he answers anyway. 

“No, I don’t. I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t want to die, and if I turned into what they were, I would be beheaded and rightfully so. I cared more about existing and being among the people I loved.” 

A shadow of pain crosses his face, there and gone in a flash. She wants to ask him about the past tense of it, about his family. But before she has a chance he raises an eyebrow, hiding behind a mask of innuendo.

“As for the other . . .” he trails off meaningfully. She feels that heat burst within her. It’s not unlike humiliation, except that it floods between her thighs. Her nipples draw tight at the memory of his mouth and tongue, the faint irritation of his beard still tickling the sensitive skin. She watches as he gulps and feels a pulse of something heavy from him as well. “No and yes.”

“How can it be both?”

“I felt a connection with my sire,” he explains. “We fought in tandem. The bond allowed us to know where the other was and if we needed help. But it wasn’t this.”

“What _is_ this?” she asks desperately. She’s never felt this way. She cared for Renly. She loved Renly, but this throbbing desire -- this _craving_ was never a part of it. 

“Want.” He says it as if it’s simple. They want, and that’s all. 

“I’ve never --” she begins but doesn’t have the words. 

“Neither have I.”

She reels. She knows she must look like a fish, her mouth opening and closing on words she doesn’t have. 

“Not like this,” he says. “I would never have --” He looks at her with remorse then. 

She flinches away from him. Nausea rises in her chest. She knows how she looks. He wouldn’t be the first person to look at her and feel repulsion. But when she meets his eyes again, they glint, not with anger, but with that look he had as he thrust in and out of her, hunger and need and lust. Her heart skips and trips in her chest. 

“I wouldn’t have taken you like that. Not the first time. But you wanted me and I wanted you.” He nearly growls as he says, “You’re mine and I’m yours. My blood is your blood, your blood is my blood.”

She feels that tension simmer between them, threatening to boil over. She feels the slick between her thighs again, can see the threat in his face that makes her blood sing her veins. She licks her lips and his eyes latch onto the movement of her tongue. It threatens to swamp her again. Her body craves his, the feel of him, the weight, the tickle of his chest hair against her sensitive nipples, the scratch of his beard against the tender skin of her thighs.

He blinks and looks away from her. 

The sun is rising, casting away the dark into twilight, beginning to illuminate their little clearing. She’s exhausted, but her body begs against her better judgment to go to him. She knows he feels it too. He stands. For a heartbeat, she thinks he’s giving in, and she can’t find it in her to feel anything but relief. Her eyes lock on his breeches, where his hard cock strains against the fabric. Her mouth is dry, her pulse thrumming. 

“We need to rest,” he says, surprising her. “The sun will rise soon and we should move on tonight. Now that you’re healed.”

Wordlessly, she walks past him to the makeshift shelter he had constructed. There are two bedrolls, on opposite sides. She knows it’s meant to make her more comfortable, without the implication of expectation, but she can’t help the disappointment that she won’t be able to touch him and claim it was simply instinct in her sleep. 

When he lies down in his own bedroll, he turns on his side to look at her. She waits for whatever it is that lurks in his eyes, some unspoken confession. But all he says is, “We’ll hunt. Together. When we wake, I’ll take you.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs. Then, because she needs to, because the word twists in her gut, burns beneath her breast, she whispers, “Jaime,” and feels the shock so strong it’s almost her own. She rolls over so her back is facing him and listens to his heartbeat slow down, lets the steady _thump-thump_ lull her to sleep.

\--

Jaime watches her carefully, the way she re-learns her own body. He remembers those first days after the change, the power that comes coupled with an over-sensitivity that feels like every piece of your skin is being touched all at once. He can feel her shock as she adjusts to the fact that she can see into the shadows now, that she is one with them in ways a human could never be. 

He steps close enough that he can whisper directly into her ear. “Listen.” He watches the shiver as it rolls down her spine at the feel of his breath. “What do you hear?”

“Everything,” she whispers, awe tingeing her voice.

“I know.” He puts his hands on her waist. She jumps at the touch but doesn’t move away. “Find one thing to focus on, even if it’s your own heartbeat.” 

Brienne’s muscles slowly relax against his touch. 

“Now,” he murmurs, “do you hear the animals? Their heartbeats? The faster ones could be a fox or a rabbit. That slow, heavy one -- it’s a deer, maybe an elk. That’s what we want, but I’ll need your help.”

She nods. He moves in front of her to lead the way, knowing she’ll follow. He heads to the sound of the heartbeat, the crack of twigs beneath hooves. They step through a small copse of trees and there it is, unaware of them, chewing and relaxed. He hears Brienne’s heart skip with anticipation and nerves. 

He runs and hears her follow quickly behind him. His arms wrap around the animal’s neck and he twists, as Brienne holds it in place, using every ounce of her newly developed strength to fight against its panic. The neck cracks and the animal goes limp immediately. 

Jaime’s heart pounds with exhilaration. He looks at Brienne to find her pupils wide, her eyes hungry, nearly starving.

“You first.” He gestures to the elk.

She hesitates for only a moment and then sinks to her knees, biting the animal’s neck with a growl that echoes in his own ears. He shouldn’t be hard just watching her, but the eagerness mixed with her palpable relief makes him yearn for her hard body against his own. She pauses. Her pulse thrums faster, like the beat of a rabbit’s heart.

She looks up at him, licks the elk’s blood from her lips and he sees his own lust reflected in those impossibly blue eyes. He pulls her up and jerks her to him, taking her mouth desperately. Her mouth tastes of the gamey blood, subtly of grass and earth.

Brienne leans out of the kiss, but not his arms. She lifts her hand and sets it against his face, brushing it across his chin. She slides her thumb, stained crimson with his blood, between her lips. He feels the cut on his lip, where her teeth cut him. 

Jaime growls, turns, and pins her against a tree with his weight, sliding his hips between her legs so the heat of her is pressed against his cock. He thought he would miss the taste of her blood, but here, smelling the arousal as it courses through her veins and slicks between her thighs, he can’t imagine wanting anything more than to be inside her again. He jerks at the laces of her breeches, keeping his eyes on hers, watching for hesitation or refusal. All he sees is his own yearning reflected there.

He kisses her again as he slips his hands into her breeches, finding her already warm and wet, ready for him. He yanks at his own laces with his other hand and nearly snaps when she reaches down to help, fingers fumbling with impatience and lack of practice. When he’s finally freed she wraps her hand around him, staring at him wide-eyed and unsure and it makes him want her all the more.

Jaime pushes her breeches down. She struggles, frustrated, trying to kick her boot off and he knees before her to do it. When he pulls one off, and lifts her foot to free her leg. He looks up, lifts her leg over his shoulder and leans in to suck desperately at the wetness that calls to him.

Brienne cries out, trembling at the feeling. Her hands touch his shoulders, and then his head, shaking.

He pulls away long enough to say, “You can pull. You won’t hurt me.” 

She does, curling her fingers in his hair and holding on for dear life as he feasts on her cunt, sucking the bud nestled at the apex of it, pressing his tongue inside and nearly burning with impatience to push into that heat again. She comes with a wail and he’s on his feet, his own breeches shoved down just far enough to free his cock. He’s inside without preamble, her still-spasming channel clutching him, pulling him deeper inside.

He fucks her without care, his hips slamming against hers. She doesn’t protest; instead she grips him tight, pulls him closer with her leg. 

Brienne doesn’t cry out softly, she doesn’t mewl like a delicate lady. She moans and groans, and when she climbs higher and higher, reaching for that breaking point, she grunts like the beast he once thought her. Now those carnal noises spark through his body, a shock to his groin. With a scream that would chase away any prey for miles, she shatters around him.

Jaime thrusts into her faster, locking eyes with her as she looks at him in wonder. That trust and open sweetness, so at odds with the nearly violent joining of their flesh hits him like a punch to the gut and he comes, shaking furiously and collapsing into her strength. 

He can’t seem to peel away from her, sweaty and sated, still deeply seated in her. She shivers, too, a fine tremble in her arms and thighs.

“Is it always like this?” she asks, her voice wavering with the power of what just happened.

“No,” he says, thinking only of the sex he’s had previously. He pulls back far enough to look her in the eye. She looks at him wildly and he realizes he can feel the echo of his own confusion in her. “I’ve never felt this. I see you and I need to be inside you as strongly as any hunger I’ve ever felt.” He kisses her, viciously, sucking on her lower lip, scraping it and biting with his blunt teeth. “I don’t know when it will ease. I don’t know if it will.”

He slips out of her, pulling his breeches up and tying them. He kneels against to help her into her own clothing, and ties her boots as she ties her breeches.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen again,” he says as he stands. “Not like this.”

Brienne shakes her head. “It was . . .” she trails off, surprise softening her mouth into an ‘o’. “You meant for it to happen again?” She looks at him with shocked wonder.

“I hoped it would.” He lifts his hand to hold her face, tender as he’d meant to be with her before. “I can think of little more than the taste of you, the way you grab me and cry out with pleasure. I can’t imagine anything more satisfying than the way your cunt clutches at my cock.”

She flushes at that and he can feel the heady arousal flow through her. He dares to kiss her softly, somehow a more frightening prospect than fucking her with raw passion. She hesitantly moves her lips against his, unsure at the gentle nature of it.

He ducks his head and says, “I hear a stream nearby. We should wash.”

\--

Brienne follows him through the underbrush, her legs still trembling, the place between them still swollen. They undress silently beside the stream. He seems transfixed by the pearly sheen of his spend smeared on the inside of her thighs as she crouches to splash water over the tacky fluid. The smell of sex surrounds her, her own musk mingling with the salty smell of his come.

She watches the water sluice over his body, trickling between the muscles of his abdomen. She needs a distraction before she does something rash, like wrap her mouth around his cock with their tastes still mingled on it, the yearning for such a primal act a shock to her system.

“Who was your sire?” she asks him, looking away to splash water over her face.

“Ser Arthur Dayne.” He says it emotionlessly. She looks at him, surprised by the flatness of his tone, unable to conceive of being so apathetic about the connection she feels to him now. “He knighted me, so it was his honor to be my sire.” 

“Why did Aerys do it?” She still can’t reconcile how he would take the risk, how he could turn the Kingsguard he trusted most into monsters, foolishly believing they would protect him. “Why did he choose vampires?”

Jaime pauses, his thoughts a scattered cacophony that crackles at the nape of her neck. She waits, patient even in her need to know, to have some explanation for this madness.

“He was sick,” he finally explains, his voice distant, as if trapped in an unwelcome memory. “Not physically, at first. But he was losing his sanity. It was slow at first, almost unnoticeable except to those closest to him. He became more violent toward Elia and his children. Furious. Vicious. He became paranoid. He wanted to protect himself from unseen threats.

“A maester told him of creatures in Asshai.” Jaime looks at her, pain heavy in his gaze. “They were immortal men: strong, fast, territorial. He demanded one be brought to him. When he was finally presented with one of these monsters, he was all too eager to become one, believing that only fire could kill him, and that if it did he would become the dragon of legend.”

“But why did he turn his guards?”

“He wanted to be feared. He wanted to be surrounded by men primal enough to destroy anyone that came near him, that would dissuade anyone that would dare challenge his rule. He sired Ser Gerold Hightower himself, because he knew the bond he felt with the vampire that turned him. He had that creature destroyed to break the bond, but he wanted the loyalty it would impose upon Ser Gerold. He thought it best, though, for the Kingsguard to form bonds between them to fight together as no other soldiers could match.”

“But what of the daylight?” Brienne asks, always wondering why Aerys would risk their weakness to something so unavoidable.

“By the time he turned us,” Jaime says, turning from her to pull his shirt over his head, “he never left the castle. He, Elia, the children except for Rhaegar, we were all held captive in The Red Keep. He didn’t trust his people enough to venture outside the walls.”

It makes a strange sort of sense, that way. Unstable, perhaps, but logical in its own way.

“How did we not know that he was so isolated at the end?”

Jaime shrugs. “I can only guess that people were too scared of the consequences if gossip made its way back to him. He felt no hesitation about slaughtering people to slake his thirst.”

Brienne freezes, a terrible suspicion curdling in her stomach. “You said you haven’t had human blood since Aerys, not until me, but before –” She can’t quite finish the question.

“Yes.” Jaime flinches, maybe at the vehement disgust in his own voice. “Aerys wanted us as powerful as possible. We were fed from the population of prisoners. The smallest infraction was excuse enough to feed his men. I hated it every single time. No matter how good it tasted, or how powerful it made me feel, it was against my will. I loathed myself, but my King commanded it, and I was at his mercy.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. It’s all she can think to say. 

He looks at her with a soft, sad smile just tilting his lips. “Me, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really thought the sex this time was going to be softer/slower. But. You know. Vampires.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, somehow, Jaime and Brienne take things to the next level as King's Landing looms before them. 
> 
> And Cersei makes her unwelcome appearance. 
> 
> \--
> 
> _“You were an innocent,” he says softly. “You deserved to be treated kindly, like a lady. The way I would treat my lady wife on our wedding night.” His eyes burn with a fire that fans the flame within her. “I meant to treat you gently.”_
> 
> _Her lungs draw in frantic breaths. She pauses, searching his face, before saying, “Show me.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to bethanyactually for betaing this and for really holding my hand as I flipped out that I had writer's block this week. She's exceedingly patient with my nonsense, and I appreciate every second of it. Any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone. 
> 
> Thanks also to the usual group of people that listen to me whine about this story. You all know who you are, I hope, and I appreciate every single one of you.

The days pass with them sleeping beneath the fabric tied between trees. The nights pass in a blur of tromping through the forest, hunting for food, and the furious coupling of their bodies after a feed. She carries the mark of his fangs and fingers in a tapestry of desire, as he carries hers. His shoulders are littered with healing wounds where she sinks her teeth into him as she comes. Her hips are dotted with the shape of his fingertips like flower buds springing from the ground.

The first time he pulls her atop him so that she straddles his hips, she feels a sort of control over her body and his, a heady rush unlike any she’s felt before. He lets her set the pace and the heat in his eyes pushes her higher and higher until she screams so loud it echoes through the forest. That night, he’s the one that leaves scratches down her back, and her fingernails leave half-moon gouges on his chest. 

Brienne feels the curiosity build within her. Jaime keeps saying he meant to take her in a different way, though she can’t imagine anything feeling better than what they’ve done already. But even the pleasure she feels each time her body yields to his doesn’t quell the desire. To say that it overwhelms her would be an understatement of massive proportion. Every time she looks at him, at the flex of his muscles, the green of his eyes, the planes of his face, her body heats with hunger for him. 

They’re near King’s Landing now. The very tip of The Red Keep looms over the tree-tops, feeling like a threat in a way that Brienne is unprepared for. She knows that things will change, that Jaime will not longer be only hers. They may feel that burning need to be close, the way their emotions coil together until it’s hard to tell which ones start with her and which start with him. He may say that they are each other’s, but he has a duty to his family, to the realm, that has nothing to do with her. And it’s her duty to deliver Jaime to his family and return Sansa Stark to Lady Catelyn, and Brienne has no intention of breaking her vow. 

They have maybe one more night of travel when they bed down as dawn breaks. He’s faced away from her on his bedroll, as he always does. Their passion burns bright, but he keeps his distance after. But every day, he stays awake until she falls asleep. She’s not sure if it’s to make sure she doesn’t run off, or if it’s some protective instinct brought on by the bond. By him _creating_ her.

“Jaime,” she whispers. She waits until he rolls over to continue. “You say -- you keep saying that you didn’t mean to take me the way you have. How did you mean to take me?” 

Her heart jolts and she hears his do the same. 

He swallows heavily before he answers her. 

“You were an innocent,” he says softly. “You deserved to be treated kindly, like a lady. The way I would treat my lady wife on our wedding night.” His eyes burn with a fire that fans the flame within her. “I meant to treat you gently.”

Her lungs draw in frantic breaths. She pauses, searching his face, before saying, “Show me.” 

Jaime doesn’t hesitate as he stands and walks to her. He extends a hand to draw her to her feet. Jaime looks down at his own, then takes one of her hands and places it against his hip. He lifts his own hand to cup around the back of her neck and pulls her down for a kiss.

His kiss is gentle, insistent but soft. His tongue doesn’t immediately press for entrance, instead waiting until she softens to him. It’s different, knowing that this is a choice, not a rush of pure instinct.

Jaime slides his hand around her waist and rucks up her shirt, his palm against her skin so hot it nearly burns. He breaks the kiss to look up at her, lips a gentle red from their kiss. He pushes her shirt up and asks, “May I?” 

Brienne nearly laughs at him, the question seeming ridiculous when he’s seen all of her, touched all of her, kissed all of her. Instead, she merely nods. 

He lifts it over her head, kissing her again when he drops it beside them. His lips caress the line of her jaw, down her neck, and across her collarbone. He presses his lips softly against the curve of her shoulder. Something about the simple gesture is powerful enough to bring tears to her eyes. It’s embarrassing, that she’s so unaccustomed to kindness and consideration that it overwhelms her.

Jaime slides his hand from her waist to her meager breasts, cupping one and brushing his thumb over the nipple to draw it into a peak. She whimpers and curves into the touch.

This time, she kisses him forcefully, craving more, harder, something that won’t leave her feeling exposed in ways that nudity itself cannot. He doesn’t give in, gentling the kiss with soft touches against her breasts and side. She reaches to untie his pants and he stills her hand. He moves away from her and she can’t prevent the groan of frustration that rumbles through her chest. 

“Let me give you what you asked for,” he says, his tone coaxing. 

“I want you,” she confesses, her body trembling with the need to be touched, no longer caring if this coupling happens the way it always has between them. 

“That’s good, but you asked for this, and I intend to give you what you want,” he says, swiping his thumb against her cheekbone with an achingly soft expression on his face. He slowly unties the knot of her breeches and pushes them down her legs. He kneels and draws her down with him. He bears her down onto the bedroll, bracing himself on his arms and running his nose along her jaw, her cheek, pressing his lips to her temple. 

This time when he kisses his way down her neck, he continues past her collarbone, drawing a nipple into his mouth and licking it softly, sending heat to pool in her stomach and spread throughout her body. He lavishes her other breast with the same attention until she’s squirming beneath him, rolling her hips against his hard length. 

Jaime finally reaches that place between her thighs that he seems to appreciate just as much as he ever enjoyed drinking her blood. He hums in contentment as he spreads her folds for his tongue, sliding it from her opening to her bud. Unlike before, he takes his time, gentling her hips with his hands, holding her as he savors the taste and brings her slowly and steadily to climax. 

Brienne doesn’t scream this time; all she can muster is a high keening noise as she comes apart in rolling waves instead of an explosion. When her breath finally calms, she opens her eyes to find him looking down at her. She reaches for the laces of his breeches again. He doesn’t stop her and when she pushes them down his legs, he leans on one arm and brings her hand to his cock. He guides her, showing her how to stroke him and when he stops her and positions himself at her entrance, he takes her mouth in the sweetest of kisses while he slowly slides inside.

She didn’t think it could be like this, that somehow this tender, careful joining of bodies could be as good as -- perhaps better than -- the rough, visceral hunger. 

It’s a weight in her chest, this sudden yearning. It’s a reminder of her dreams as a young girl: ephemeral, silly fantasies about a knight in shining armor who would find her beautiful and take her as his wife, a handsome man who would love her with her many faults, not in spite of them. She buries her face in Jaime’s neck, hoping he’ll mistake the tears that leak from her eyes for sweat. But from the way he holds her, she’s not sure she manages.

He shudders through his own climax, and she finds she doesn’t care that she didn’t join him this time. She revels in the knowledge that she brought him to that point, that maybe she’s shattered him as he has her. He wipes away the tracks left by her tears and she shuts her eyes against the tumult of emotions in his own, afraid of what it means. Whether it’s pity or -- or something even more frightening. 

“Brienne,” he says, voice husky and raw. “Look at me.”

She finds herself incapable of denying him, and gazes into his bright green eyes. He is so beautiful, it pains her to imagine what he sees when he looks at her: homely, mannish, a mish-mash of unattractive parts cobbled together to create something even more beastly. But the way his eyes seem to trace over those mismatched features, it’s hard to push down the hope that maybe he finds her beautiful in her own way. If not beautiful, at least desirable, and for a woman such as Brienne that’s more than she had ever expected. 

He presses his lips gently against both her cheeks, and then continues down. She thinks he means to kiss her neck, but he keeps going. 

“Jaime, what are --”

“Shhh,” he murmurs against the muscles of her stomach. 

He places his mouth against the still sensitive skin of her cunt and she sucks in a gasp as he licks at his own spend. It shouldn’t be arousing, but she finds herself quivering before he even begins to suck at her nub. This time, when she comes, her every muscle trembles with the joy of release and the fear that she’s opened herself to a new sort of vulnerability she can ill afford. 

That night, he doesn’t return to his side of the shelter and she feels the yearning like a vise around her heart.

\--

Jaime wakes as the sun sets, its last warm rays tangling up in Brienne’s pale blond hair like fire. He’s still wrapped around her, arm at her waist, one leg nestled between hers. He’s never woken like this -- in the embrace of a woman, the sunlight cradling them as they cradle each other. Not even with Cersei, not once. 

Brienne’s hand is resting over his and instead of snapping to alertness as she normally does, she blinks awake slowly, languidly. She stretches against his body like a cat, only pausing when she brushes against the hardness at her hip. She rolls over to face him, her face soft, but there’s a fear in her eyes that makes his heart twist. 

He kisses her softly, brushing the wisps of sleep-mussed hair from her forehead.

The stars are out by the time their camp is packed away. Dread curdles in Jaime’s stomach like sour milk. He knows what awaits them in King’s Landing and the terror he feels is shocking even to him. The idea of seeing Cersei again with Brienne at his side -- he knows what she would think of Brienne if she were merely his captor, but Brienne as -- as his . . . Jaime doesn’t know what she is. His companion, his comrade, his lover . . . _his_. 

He has always been Cersei’s. Even with the years of separation. Even as she married a King and bore another’s children. He has always been hers, and hers alone.

Until now. Until the moment he entered Brienne with dawn breaking, and her blue eyes, impossibly beautiful before the turn, looked at him as if he were some sort of thing to be treasured. She didn’t look at him as the monster he is, but the man he once hoped to be. He worries about the moment he sees his perfect sister again, with her green eyes and golden hair, beautiful face and delicate bones. 

“When we get to the city,” he says, his voice startlingly loud in the silence of the forest, “follow my lead, please. My family --” he doesn’t know what his family will do, how they’ll react to his presence, filthy and near-emaciated, but free. “My family can be dangerous.” 

Brienne is nervous, her body practically vibrating with it. She nods. They stand only a few steps from each other, yet he can already feel a chasm opening between them, and all the quiet, soft touches fading beneath the reality of what’s to come when their journey ends. 

The uneasy silence engulfs them again, the remaining distance to the city gates. Jaime leads her through the familiar streets of the capital, the stone streets and claustrophobic alleys unsettling after so many weeks traveling with only Brienne and the trees and meadows of the Kingswood to keep them company. Before he’s ready -- though he doesn’t know if he would ever be ready -- the Red Keep looms before them, spiralling up into the night sky. 

They’re stopped on the steps by a guard, who pauses before speaking as he recognizes Jaime. The look of shock that descends over his face would make Jaime laugh if he weren’t so shaken by what’s to come. 

“Ser Jaime,” he says, bowing his head in respect. “Your arrival is,” his eyes dart to Brienne at Jaime’s shoulder, and then to Jaime’s ragged clothing, “unexpected.”

“For myself as well.” Jaime automatically draws himself up, his bearing that of the Commander of the Lannister army once again. “Please alert my sister to our arrival. _I_ will escort my companion to the guest quarters.” 

The guard hesitates, but the look on Jaime’s face brooks no argument. “Of course, Ser.”

Jaime leads a silent Brienne through the echoing halls of the castle, listening as her heartbeat races nervously. He hesitates at the door to his usual guest chambers, several others extending down the long hall. The idea of depositing Brienne in one of them far from him feels wrong, like there’s a tether between them that stretches and strains painfully at the notion of her not being within arm’s reach. 

But he also knows his sister will come to him, that the odds are in favor of her being bare beneath her robes, her cunt wet and wanting. He’s keenly aware of how well Brienne can hear now, that she’ll hear --

He feels sick in a way that surprises him. Before, every time he was separated from Cersei, he craved her every day, nearly every minute, his body yearning for the moment he could be inside her again. Now the idea of touching someone other than Brienne, the idea that she would be able to feel the excitement, his arousal, _anything_ of what he would share with Cersei is a blow like no other. 

“This is the chamber I stay in while I’m here,” he explains, voice tight. “If you need me at any time -- I know we can feel one another, but I don’t want you to -- you should know where I am.” He leads the way five doors down and on the opposite wall. “This will be yours. If you find your room wanting for anything, find me. I will do everything I can to ensure your comfort until we secure Sansa.” 

“Thank you,” she says quietly, as if already aware of spiders in the walls, and whisperers passing messages. She looks at him, a million thoughts, anxieties, fears, nerves, swirling in her eyes as she says, “Until later, Jaime.”

She disappears into the room leaving him in the hall, shaken. He doesn’t even make it back to his room before he hears the padding of slippers and swish of silk that announces his sister’s presence before she turns the corner.

His heart jolts in his chest at the sight of her, immaculate even when roused from sleep. He smells her, the sharpness of her favorite red wine; the touch of citrus and lavender her maids dab on her wrists, behind her ears, and that she dabs between her thighs. He steps into his room, knowing she will follow. He pours her a glass of wine as she shuts the door quietly behind herself. 

“You look awful,” she says while his back is still to her. 

“Being held in a cage like a dog for over a year will do that to a man.” He turns to find her lounging against the door, all soft lines and sensuous curves, her bare leg peeking out of her crimson robe. She saunters toward him. “Walking from Riverrun to King’s Landing certainly didn’t help matters.”

Her nose wrinkles at the smell of him, which even he isn’t totally blind to after weeks. “You called for me smelling like an animal?”

He braces himself, runs the back of his knuckles over her cheek. She flinches from the touch, as if the idea of being touched by him when he’s imperfect disgusts her. 

“There’s something I need to tell you.” He passes the goblet of wine to her. 

“I heard you brought your very own beast. A giant, shambling thing.” She lifts an eyebrow but takes a drink. “Is it as stupid as it is hideous?” 

Jaime is swamped by a sudden fury, the creature within him calling out to destroy anyone who would speak of Brienne in such a way. 

“ _She_ is Brienne of Tarth, heir to Lord Selwyn the Evenstar.” Cersei’s other brow raises in surprise at his tone, the vehemence that approaches defense. “She was sent with me to ensure my cooperation with the Stark demands.”

Cersei immediately becomes frigid, a pillar of icy anger. “What could those usupers possibly think to demand of the rightful rulers of Westeros?” 

“Their daughter.” 

“They will be sorely disappointed then,” Cersei says acidly. “They have no grounds on which to make such demands. Are they naive enough to believe we would be so thrilled to have you back that we would acquiesce?” She slams the goblet of wine on the side table, the burgundy liquid spilling across the dark wood. “We have no reason to give her over now that you’re back. Let them test their mettle against the walls of King’s Landing if they’re so desperate to have that stupid, fragile dove back in their wolf’s den.”

Jaime is all at once exhausted. The months of near-starvation followed by weeks of bare survival were taxing enough. Now his sister and -- he doesn’t know what she is anymore -- stands before him, her ire at the machinations of war seeming a pale, inconsequential temper tantrum compared to what he and Brienne have survived. 

“I need rest, we’ll speak of this tomorrow.” Jaime ignores the offense and surprise on Cersei’s face at his dismissal. “Surely you don’t desire me in my current state. I look like a wild animal and smell even worse, and I fear my performance after weeks of surviving on little more than rodents will leave us both disappointed.”

He fears for a moment that she will protest, but then her lip curls as her eyes trace over his body, disgust marring her impeccable features. 

“I’ll send maids with a bath.” She reaches the door, but before she leaves, she turns back to him and says, “Make certain you bring your beast with you. I should so love to meet the creature that brought my dear brother back to where he belongs.”

It’s as much a threat as any Jaime has ever heard, sending ice cold fear through his entire body. 

When Cersei finds out that Brienne is like him . . . 

If Cersei finds out that she is _his_ , then may the Gods have mercy on both their souls, for his sister surely will not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bear with me, everyone. Next chapter will be Intense. At this point, I'm aiming to update once a week! That's the goal. The one-shots that aren't dirty or heavy plot-wise, I can chip away on while I'm at work. But this one is not only too dirty, it's frankly too heavy to work on on my lunch break. But I get a lot of writing done over the weekend, and that's about how often I can get it written. :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the rest of the Lannister crew shows up. Tywin is commanding. Septa Donyse makes an appearance. Brienne finally sets eyes on Sansa Stark. And Jaime. Well. Jaime has some feelings, y’all. 
> 
> —
> 
> _Septa Donyse tilts her head and says, “You look well enough.”_
> 
> _Brienne blushes instantaneously, her familiar friends embarrassment and dread rising within her._
> 
> _“Would red not have been more suitable?” Brienne asks, glancing down her body at the sapphire brocade._
> 
> _“Ser Jaime requested blue, milady.”_  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one is more relieved than I am that this chapter is finally being published. If you follow me on tumblr you'll know I've had a rough couple of weeks. It really did a number on my energy levels and ability to focus. This chapter is fairly important in terms of the story, not to mention the rest of the Lannisters make an appearance, for better or worse. A story is much easier to write when it's only two characters that matter. 
> 
> At any rate, I'm mostly just proud of myself because this isn't _so_ late. It's also, I believe, the longest chapter yet _and_ I have the first scene of the next chapter already mostly done _and_ it's shockingly plot heavy for me. 
> 
> Thank you, AS ALWAYS, to bethanyactually for whipping this into shape. I asked more of her this time than I typically do. She did multiple betas on this one and it's all the better for it. 
> 
> On with the show!

No matter how many years pass, Jaime will always feel like the seventeen-year-old Tywin sees when he’s in front of his father. 

“Jaime,” Tywin greets him coldly, “sit.” 

Jaime bristles at the commanding tone. Tywin always speaks in edicts and expect immediate acquiescence. All the same, he waits a few extra seconds before he sits in the chair across from his father, just for the pleasure of watching his jaw tighten a fraction. 

“I would ask how you managed to escape the Starks, but I understand you weren’t alone when you arrived.” 

Jaime smiles lazily at his father, donning the arrogance of his youth like a suit of armor. “Hello to you as well, father.” 

Tywin narrows his eyes at Jaime, the ever-present scowl twisting even more at Jaime’s tone. “Tell me why the Starks let their most valuable prisoner go free.” 

“They didn’t, not exactly. Lady Catelyn intended to exchange me for her daughter.” Jaime schools himself, refusing to shift under his father’s piercing stare. “I was accompanied by my --” he searches for a word to explain Brienne to his father that won’t raise further suspicion, but as Tywin’s eyebrow raises further, Jaime’s throat tightens more. “My escort,” he finishes awkwardly. 

“Ah, yes.” The look in Tywin’s eye is disconcerting, an unwelcome reminder of Jaime’s childhood. “Does this ‘escort’ have a name worth noting? From my understanding, you’ve put her in the guest quarters -- an odd choice for someone who was little more than your gaoler.” 

“Lady Brienne of Tarth,” Jaime says, dread in every word, suddenly very afraid of exposing her to whatever is to come. “The Evenstar’s daughter.” 

Tywin’s already unnerving stare sharpens further, a strange sort of fury in the flat line of his mouth.“She will join us tonight for supper.” Jaime opens his mouth to protest, but Tywin cocks his head. “Make certain she’s properly attired. I understand from the guards you were both in little more than rags, smeared in filth.”

Jaime has little choice but to comply. He defied his father once in his entire life, and it resulted in being branded a Kingslayer, the worst sort of oathbreaker. 

“Of course, Father.” Jaime braces himself to stand. “If that’s all?” 

Tywin nods and Jaime departs with a pounding heart. It’s all he can do to prevent himself from running to Brienne’s room, an unreasonable fear thrumming within him. His father is not a kind man, but even he wouldn’t dare to mistreat a house’s only living heir for no greater slight than returning his son coated in grime. 

Brienne opens the door to him immediately before he even has a chance to knock. She stands there, tall and broad, exhaustion clear on her face, anxiety in response to his own pouring off of her in waves. He walks through the door, barely lets her close it, and then he’s on her. He presses her back against the door, mouth taking hers in a desperate kiss. He needs to touch her, to feel her skin beneath his fingertips and her heat against his body, needs the reassurance that she’s fine. 

She seems to need the comfort of him just as much, one of her legs wrapping around his hip, pulling his body against hers. She winds her fist into his long, scraggly hair and licks into his mouth, whimpering when he grinds his already hard cock against her center. When she pushes against him, he stumbles back, never breaking contact. 

Jaime realizes in a rush that she’s walking him toward the bed, and lets her lean over him when his knees bump against the mattress. He watches in a daze as she rips her shirt over her head, nipples already hard with desire. He bites her breast, not caring about the taste of her, that it isn’t precisely the same as when she was human. He simply needs her within him, a reminder that she’s his. 

He sucks one of her nipples into his mouth, playing at the peak with his tongue and teeth as she tears at the laces of his breeches with a single-minded, nearly vicious determination. When she finally takes him inside, her wet heat engulfing his cock, holding him in the most comforting embrace he’s ever known, some emotion swells in his throat until he fears he’ll choke on it. 

Her head is flung back as she moves above him, glorious in the warm sunlight peeking through heavy drapes and the light from the fire crackling in the hearth. She takes him, her own hand coming to circle around her nub, shameless in her hunger. He can do little more than grip her hips and gaze upon her like the work of art she is. She comes with an animal roar, powerful thighs holding him down while she grinds through the last of her pleasure. 

Brienne finally looks at him when the spasming of her walls around his cock calms. He’s still within her, staring at her in awe of what she has become: from the angry, cold, shuttered soldier to the writhing, magnificent, powerful creature above him, her odd face now more familiar to him than his own. 

Her eyes hold his as she begins to move again, hands braced against his chest as she rises and falls over and over. When she finally breaks that stare, it’s to lean down and bite, her teeth rupturing the skin of his shoulder, the pain-pleasure of it coursing through him, pushing him over the edge. His climax is a consuming force, slamming into him like a jousting lance hurtling him through the air. But the landing is soft, his back against the mattress, his front covered by the sweat-coated heat of his Brienne. 

No word seems to capture what she’s become, what weaves them together so tightly he sometimes can’t tell where he ends and she begins.

Now the threat of his family isn’t merely a far-away nightmare. She will sit for judgment before his father, but it’s the looming specter of Cersei that truly scares him. His former lover -- though she doesn’t know it yet -- will see it, he’s certain. He won’t be able to hide from the one who knew him best, and she has never been one to let go of what is hers. 

He can’t quell the fear for Brienne. He didn’t know what that feeling choking him was, couldn’t even think of the possibility, not until the threat his family posed her became all too real. 

He loves her. 

\--

Brienne tugs at the belled sleeves of the dark blue gown. The Septa clucks at Brienne as she finishes the final stitches. Even with the hem let down as much as possible, it still swings at least an inch above the floor, exposing Brienne’s feet and, when she walks, her ankles. Jaime did his best, she knows. Septa Donyse is a kinder woman than Brienne is accustomed to, not a single comment about Brienne’s appearance escaping her lips. She’s a serious woman, her mouth wrinkled as if it is stuck in a permanent moue of displeasure, but for once Brienne doesn’t think it’s caused by her and her alone. 

Septa Donyse stands behind her, yanking at the waist of the dress as if that will do anything to create the illusion of a woman’s body. The padding to give her bosom a more feminine appearance barely helps. It’s on the tip of Brienne’s tongue to apologize to this woman, for her manly body and height, for her broad shoulders and thick waist. 

Before she has a chance, Septa Donyse tilts her head and says, “You look well enough.” 

Brienne blushes instantaneously, her familiar friends embarrassment and dread rising within her. 

“Would red not have been more suitable?” Brienne asks, glancing down her body at the sapphire brocade. 

“Ser Jaime requested blue, milady.” 

Brienne has no idea what to make of that. When Jaime left, the only thing he’d told her was to be cautious, follow his lead, and that he would return to escort her down to supper. As if summoned by her thoughts, there’s a knock at the door to her chambers. 

Septa Donyse opens it and there’s Jaime. She barely had time to think of it when he came to her earlier, but he’s clean-shaven, his hair soft, brushed and burnished gold again, more beautiful than most women, more handsome than any man. And somehow, in some completely incomprehensible way, hers. 

Every time she begins to doubt it, she remembers the heat in his eyes as he said those very words to her. _You’re mine and I’m yours._ She could never bring herself to say it aloud, to suggest it herself. It’s even more difficult to imagine doing so with him standing before her looking like half a god. 

Jaime’s eyes trace down her body, from her straw-like limp curls, down her broad shoulders, flat chest, thick waist, all the way to the too-short bottom of the dress. She flushes and looks away from his face, eyes searching out the tapestries hanging from the walls. Brienne is faintly aware of Jaime thanking the Septa and her quiet farewell, then the soft thud of the door closing behind her. 

His quiet footfalls are the only warning that he’s coming to her. He touches her chin and presses only slightly to turn her face back to him. 

“Blue is a good color on you, my lady,” he says softly. Her heart clenches at the words, said so sincerely, as if she truly is a lady. “It brings out your eyes.”

She flinches, cheeks burning with the heat of mortification. “You needn’t lie to me,” she mumbles.

“I know you can feel me,” Jaime says quietly, but with that edge he gets, that bristle that hints of anger. “Don’t accuse me of lying when you know better.” 

Brienne knows he’s being honest, but the need to protect herself is not so easily quelled as that. Especially not in the turmoil of court once again, a place that has only doled out the most intense hurt. 

“You look well,” she says and meets his eyes again. The sharp emerald green of them still slices her every time she sees them so near her. 

His mouth quirks in a sardonic smile. “I fear the white cloak is soiled by the mere touch of my body.”

“No.” Her vehemence seems to surprise him. “You look very well, Jaime.” 

The startled look in his eyes softens to something else entirely, something she is terrified to name; the same expression he held when he took her so softly beneath the canopy their final day in the forest. 

“My sister --” he begins, his voice tight, his jaw clenched. “I won’t lie to you. She will be cruel, to you in particular.”

Brienne wants to roll her eyes or laugh at him. Of course, everyone will be cruel to her, just as they have always been. “I’ll be fine.” 

He cups her cheek briefly, brushing his thumb along the line of her cheekbone, then presents his arm bent at the elbow for her to take. “We shouldn’t be late.” 

The journey to the dining hall feels so like a march into battle that Brienne feels the absence of her sword more keenly than she expected. Jaime presses his free hand against the one resting on his arm, attempting to soothe her mounting fear. 

They enter the room to find the entire party, to Brienne’s best guess, already gathered. Tywin Lannister stands from his seat at the head of the table, his gaze more piercing than anything Jaime has ever managed. 

“Lady Brienne,” he says, his voice sending a tremor of fear down her spine. “Thank you for joining us.” He gestures to the end of the table. “Please, sit.”

Cersei Lannister to Tywin’s left, beautiful in a way that is nearly breathtaking, with small bones, and perfect features matched to a regal bearing Brienne could never learn in a thousand lifetimes. Tyrion, the only family member Jaime hasn’t specifically cautioned Brienne about, is next to Sansa Stark. Brienne feels a heady rush of relief at the sight of her, whole and seemingly healthy, and something in her calling to Brienne, some clear pure scent. She turns and blinks at Jaime in shock, only to find him staring intently at Sansa before cutting a quick glance to his brother with an arched brow. 

_Oh._

Jaime guides her to the chair directly across from Sansa, pulling it out and pushing it in for her. She expects Jaime to take the empty seat next to his father, across from his sister, but instead he seats himself next to Brienne. Brienne watches warily as Cersei pins Jaime with a cold stare before sliding her eyes to Brienne. Brienne flushes and looks to Sansa.

“Lady Sansa,” she greets quietly. 

Sansa Stark is wan, a fragile-looking girl, but when she locks eyes with Brienne there’s a steeliness behind that bird-like facade that both reassures and chills Brienne. “Lady Brienne,” she greets blandly.

A silence descends over the proceedings, only to be shattered suddenly by Tywin Lannister’s baritone filling the space.

“Lady Brienne,” he says. She startles, desperately trying not to show her anxiety. “I understand you are whom I should thank for returning my wayward son.” 

“Yes, my lord,” Brienne answers, voice choked. She clears her throat. “I was tasked by Lady Catelyn Stark to return him to your family.”

“Ah, yes,” Tywin returns, an eyebrow arching. “I would assume there is a price for such a gift.” 

Brienne blanches at the iciness of his voice. He knows. She knows Jaime already shared the terms with his father, he told her as much as he dressed after their -- after he came to her. 

“Lady Catelyn wishes for her daughters to be returned to her, unharmed,” Brienne explains through numb lips. 

Tywin’s eyes never leave hers. It seems he never even blinks. “I’m afraid that will be impossible.”

Brienne immediately stiffens, cutting her eyes to Jaime. His eyes are trained on his father, and she can feel the suspicion drifting through the air. She looks back to Tywin. “With all due respect, my lord, I know that Lady Sansa is married to your son of late. However, I’m sure some agreement could be brokered, some compensation in addition to the return of Ser Jaime --”

“I’m afraid you misunderstand my father,” Cersei’s voice cuts Brienne off sharply. “It would be impossible to deal with any Stark.” 

A cold sensation fills Brienne’s chest. 

Cersei continues, “I’m afraid there was an incident at Edmure Tully’s wedding to the Frey girl.” There is a sick pleasure in Cersei’s face. Brienne hears the faint whimper from Sansa. 

“Father,” Jaime says sharply. “What have you done?” 

Tywin’s face twists in fury. 

“As if father would dirty his own hands with such things,” Cersei answers, only angering Tywin further, if the flush stealing over his cheeks is any indication. “The Freys slaughtered the Starks. Every single one of them. I hear it was a vicious blood-soaked affair. I’m sure you would have been quite useful.”

Rage consumes Brienne in a fierce storm of clear, single-minded purpose. She will tear open that delicate, white column of a throat, feast on the hot blood that will spurt from --

A warm palm curls around her hand where it grips the table, a familiar comfort that seems to penetrate the fog of fury that blankets her. She glances down at Jaime’s hand cupping hers. She looks up to find that his gaze is still trained on his sister’s face, a carefully neutral expression on his own. His thumb rubs along her finger, up and down slowly. She can feel the calm pouring from him, as if he thinks she can take it into her veins from mere touch alone. 

Brienne closes her eyes, drawing a deep breath through her nose and releasing it slowly. When she opens her eyes again, Cersei has her eyes trained on Jaime’s hand covering Brienne’s. She raises that glare to Brienne’s face, a perceptive look that unnerves Brienne as much as Tywin’s.

Sansa stands suddenly, her chair screeching along the stone floor. Tyrion looks up at her with concern as she opens her mouth and says faintly, “I am feeling unwell. If I may be --”

Tyrion slides off of his own chair and reaches up to cup his hand around Sansa’s elbow. She flinches, but does not jerk away from his touch. “I must escort my lady wife to our chambers.” 

He doesn’t ask for permission, merely nods to a guard and guides Sansa from the room, her gait wobbly. Brienne fears she may truly faint, but she can hardly follow the girl. 

If the previous silence was tense, this one is suffocating. Brienne feels hollowed out, numb with disbelief. The loss of Lady Catelyn is a wound that cuts her to the core. She was a kind woman. Perhaps the first that spoke to Brienne as more than an oddity or a thing to be pitied. 

It slams into her. The loss. The loss of her humanity. The loss of her purpose. The loss of her virtue. The loss of the warmth she felt in Lady Catelyn’s presence. The death of the Tarth line is blood on her hands that no amount of soap and water can cleanse. She has failed in all respects. Sansa Stark -- no, Sansa Lannister, is unreachable. Even if Brienne could save her, there is no family to return her to, and the absence of Arya Stark is suddenly as loud as the cacophony of battle. 

Food appears on the table, the cloying scent of spices and cooked flesh turning her stomach. She realizes suddenly that Jaime didn’t prepare her for this, for her inability to eat, that everyone would know the moment she couldn’t bear to eat the food.

But Jaime must have taken care of it, for she’s presented with naught more than a goblet brimming with the blood of some animal -- aurochs perhaps -- the thick grassy scent unfamiliar to her. She hears a sharp, hissing intake of breath and looks up, blurry eyes focusing on Cersei Lannister’s face. She looks as if she’s been slapped before schooling her features into a blank canvas of nothing. 

She straightens her spine, squares her shoulders, raises the goblet, and sips the blood. She feels Jaime’s hand steal beneath the table to briefly squeeze her thigh, the heat of his palm penetrating the thick brocade.

Brienne knows Jaime did not know -- couldn’t know -- of the plot against the Starks. The craven manner in which the Frey’s slaughtered them was in direct opposition to guest right. 

She wants to drag him from this cold, horrible room. She wants him to press her against the floor and take her ferociously, all clawing fingernails and ripped- open garments, the slam of his hip bones against hers, the consuming press of his cock pounding into her until she can’t think of anything except the screaming pleasure of their joining. 

Brienne smells his arousal, knows that if she presses her hand against the placket of his breeches she’ll find him straining against the wool. Instead, she takes another sip of blood and reminds herself that she can survive this as well. That she must. She will perform for Jaime. She will perform for her late liege lady, cloaking herself with the confidence Lady Catelyn placed in her. 

\--

Somehow, they survive the dinner, achingly silent though it may be. Jaime stands and moves to pull Brienne's chair away from the table, when his father stops him. 

"Jaime, you will remain." 

Jaime opens his mouth to protest, but stops short at the dangerous glint in Tywin's eyes. "What of Lady Brienne?" he asks instead. 

Tywin cuts his eyes to Brienne, speaking directly to her. "Ser Barristan will escort you to your chambers."

Brienne dips in a move halfway between a curtsy and a bow, looking at Jaime only briefly before turning away. Jaime brushes her fingers with his own as she walks past, hoping it will sooth away some of the lines of worry creasing around her mouth. He doesn't fear for her safety. Not even Cersei would be so brazen as to attack her, vampire or not.

He sits down, bracing himself for whatever is to come. He waits for his father to speak first, a lesson learned the hard way. 

“Did you do this?” Tywin’s voice is affectless, the same cold demeanor he uses for court. 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, Father.”

Tywin all but growls at Jaime’s impertinence, his face tight with fury. 

“Are you the one that turned Lady Brienne into an _abomination_?” He spits the word, as if it’s ash in his mouth. “She’s sworn to the Starks and they don’t hold with your kind.”

Jaime is furious in a flash, the anger burning in his gut. 

“And if I am?” Jaime questions, body coiled as if to prepare for attack, just like the _abomination_ he is. “What’s my punishment to be? An hour in direct sunlight? Five lashes with a silver chain? Oh, or perhaps being submerged in water blessed by the Seven?”

Tywin slams his fist on the table. Jaime shouldn’t feel pleasure at forcing his father to lose his composure, but there’s so little enjoyment to be derived from any interaction with Tywin Lannister, one must take one’s amusement where one can.

“I will not tolerate this from you,” Tywin says, voice trembling with rage. “You will give me a direct answer immediately.”

“Yes.” Jaime answers, adopting a flat, bland tone and expression. “I ruined her in every meaning of the word. You know me, Father: a craven, oathbreaking monster. How was I to resist sentencing the Maid of Tarth to an eternity of being even more detested than she would be as merely a woman pretending at knighthood? Admittedly, taking her maidenhead was purely for my own pleasure.” He lets a slow smirk curl his mouth. “And hers.”

Tywin’s face is as red as his crimson doublet when Jaime finishes his speech. Jaime watches as his expression morphs from seething and incandescent rage to the cold, implacable resolution his father adopts before passing judgment on one of his people. 

“You will be removed from the Kingsguard tomorrow.” Tywin’s entire being radiates a type of danger that not even Jaime dares to argue against. “You will leave King’s Landing, quietly, and travel to Casterly Rock with your --” Tywin’s mouth twists with repulsion, “-- with your creation.” 

“She won’t leave quietly, not without Sansa Stark,” Jaime says, careful to sound as acquiescent as possible. “She’s stubbornly, stupidly honorable.”

“Yes, that much is apparent.” Tywin arches a sardonic eyebrow. 

“She will leave with you. You will _both_ make your way to Casterly Rock, where you will wait for further direction while I attempt to remediate the consequences of your murder of the only living heir to a noble house.”

“I didn’t _murder_ her,” Jaime says, half-rising out of his seat, fingers in a white-knuckled grip around the chair arms. “She was nearly killed by _your_ sellswords, _after_ she saved me by allowing me to feed on her when they attempted to starve me.” 

Jaime pauses for Tywin to absorb that information, the inherent foolishness in trusting men whose loyalty could be bought by the next highest bidder at a moment’s notice. 

“I _saved_ her,” Jaime hisses. 

Tywin is silent, a pause long enough that Jaime feels as if time has stopped all together. 

“Yes, well,” Tywin finally responds, voice even once more. “It will be interesting to see if the Evenstar agrees with your assessment of your own heroism.”

Jaime blanches. 

“You’re dismissed.”

“Fa --”

Tywin cuts him down with a mere look. “You are dismissed, Jaime.” 

Jaime strides from the room, rankling at losing yet another round with Tywin, his mind spinning with the magnitude of the consequence of saving Brienne’s life. 

Yet, he cannot find it within himself to regret it. Not for a moment.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cersei makes her appearance and is the worst. Jaime reveals some very important things. Brienne gets close to revealing some important things. And Decisions must be made, capital D intended. 
> 
> \--
> 
> _“And what is that truth?” Jaime asks._
> 
> _Her eyes jerk up to meet his at the strangely sharp edge to his question. She searches his expression for reassurance, but all she sees -- all she feels -- is a tension that toes at the line from fear to terror, but not anger._
> 
> _“That I was mortally wounded escaping capture,” she says, carefully and resolutely. “That Ser Jaime Lannister did everything within his power to save my life, and only when it became clear I would die, did he choose to save me the only way he could.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to bethanyactually for being lovely _and_ speedy and for truly reading any and all novel-length notes I send her. 
> 
> I'm starting to think my notes for this fic are longer than the fic itself. Turns out, when you build new mythology into existing mythology, and you care if it makes sense, it's difficult! Who knew.

Jaime closes the door behind him, leaning his forehead against it for a mere moment before he realizes he’s not alone. Cersei’s scent is unmistakable. He turns to find her leaning against the bedpost nearest the door, body sensuously coiled to highlight her soft curves. 

“I began to wonder if father decided to finally rid himself of his _second_ -greatest shame,” she says, an amused smirk that doesn’t quite reach her eyes tilting her mouth. 

“It was a near thing.” He brushes past her, unbuckling his jerkin as he goes, tossing it across a chair in front of the fire. She follows him, her quiet, even footfalls in time with his own. He faces the fire, wanting nothing more than for her to disappear into the night and leave him be. But this is Cersei, and she has never once shown him mercy. 

Cersei presses her body to his back, her hand coming around to play with the strings at the neck of his tunic. Her breath is hot against the skin of his throat as she whispers, “Let me help you forget.” 

Nausea rises within him at the suffocating smell of her, the feel of her touch against his skin. It’s not only the knowledge that he is tethered to Brienne, nor is it simply the bond between them. The place where Cersei had taken root in their childhood, the parts of him that had weathered her marriage to the Baratheon and the sight of her swollen with Damion’s children, has been destroyed. Something within him has shifted, fundamentally. He is no longer the Golden Lion, the most-feared monster in Westeros. He’s no longer Cersei’s. 

He’s something else. Something more, perhaps.

No matter the cause, the feel of her delicate fingers against the tender skin exposed at the base of his throat is so _wrong_ he can’t prevent his body from jerking away, shaking himself free of her grip in the process.

When he turns to face her once more, a dangerous fury glints in her eyes. But all she does is tilt her head and say, “I’m not angry, Jaime.”

He stares at her in confusion, her words so at odds with her expression. She lifts a hand to cup his cheek. He flinches. 

“Oh, sweet brother,” she says, softly, thumb stroking along his cheekbone. “You needed comfort and I was not there to give it to you. Do you believe I would blame you for being weak enough to give in to your body’s base needs? I know she is nothing to you, just as Robert and Damion have always been nothing to me.” She’s drawing closer with each murmured word, her body molding to his, until her lips brush dryly against his own. 

He grips her arms and sets her away from him, taking a large step back. “No,” he says, shaking his head, resisting the urge to childishly wipe the feel of her mouth away with his own hand.

The false pretenses are dropped in a dizzying instant. 

“That thing spreads its legs for you, and you think you can deny me what’s mine?” She grabs his arm, nails stinging even though the linen of his shirt, a cruel smirk twisting her beautiful face into something hideous. “Or maybe _you_ spread _your_ legs for the beast.”

The sound of Cersei calling Brienne _that_ word, the word he spat at her as an insult for weeks, that he used to injure Brienne, sparks something within him and he wraps his hand around Cersei’s wrist in a flash. Cersei gasps and whimpers. Jaime blinks away the rage, refocusing on her face to find it tight with anger and genuine pain. He can feel the delicate bones beneath his palm and lets go just as hastily as he grabbed.

He could easily crush Cersei’s wrist, as easily as blinking, and he forgot his strength in the flood of fury that consumed him. 

“How dare you.” Cersei’s voice shakes. When he looks at her once more, her body is quivering with barely contained rage. He wonders at how long it will remain restrained. “You dare attack your Queen? One more accusation of treason and not even our father will be able to keep that pathetic excuse for a head on your shoulders.”

Jaime laughs, a bitter, caustic sound that seems to echo through the chamber. “And what of your treasons, sweet sister?” He tilts his head, a disdainful smirk on his lips. “Do you think the people love you enough that they won’t believe the truth? That you’ve sat a pretender on the throne?”

She flushes a furious red, her chest rising and falling rapidly, with anger or panic, fear or fury, he can’t tell. Maybe all of them. 

“Tell me,” he continues, in the arrogant, languid tone he usually reserves for their father, “did you truly only fuck Damion so the children would look like they were ours? Or did you only care if you were fucking someone who looked like you?”

Jaime’s head snaps to the side, the sound of Cersei’s palm connecting with his cheek echoing through the room. His cheek stings, but he still turns to her with an insolent smirk on his face. “You didn’t answer my question, sweet sister.”

Her face transforms at that: cool, calm, deadly. 

“You would do well to remember, sweet brother,” she says quietly, “that I have destroyed more powerful men than you. I have made kings and killed kings. What are you? A treasonous kingslayer. A _monster_. You were only shown leniency because of our father and myself. I opened my legs to a drunken brute so that you might live. How will the people of Westeros react when they discover you’re creating new vampires? You were pardoned once against public outcry. Would anyone be able to save you again?”

Jaime has no quick response to that. 

“If your position is so precarious, imagine how easy it would be to take your pet from you.” 

\--

Brienne awakens to a nearly silent tapping at her door. She can tell it’s Jaime before she unbolts the door, opening it to find him looking exhausted, his face pulled tight with lines of concern etched around his eyes. She closes the door behind him, but instead of clutching her heatedly as she has come to expect, he simply looks at her.

The expression on his face is sad, uncertain in an unsettling way, but then he draws her into an embrace, one arm around her waist, his other hand coming up to tangle in her hair. He holds her close, seeking some comfort from her. 

When he finally pulls away, he kisses her with a painful sort of tenderness.

“You’re worried,” Brienne says plainly. 

“My father was not pleased.” Jaime rakes a hand through his hair and walks past her, further into the room. He faces her with his body drawn tall, shoulders squared. 

She’s not sure if the calm and confident facade is for his sake or her own. 

“Have you thought of what to tell your own father?”

Brienne feels the need to sit, rather suddenly, and makes her way to the foot of the bed. “The truth, I suppose,” she says after a heavy pause. 

“And what is that truth?” Jaime asks. 

Her eyes jerk up to meet his at the strangely sharp edge to his question. She searches his expression for reassurance, but all she sees -- all she feels -- is a tension that toes at the line from fear to terror, but not anger. 

“That I was mortally wounded escaping capture,” she says, carefully and resolutely. “That Ser Jaime Lannister did everything within his power to save my life, and only when it became clear I would die, did he choose to save me the only way he could.” 

Some of the tension ebbs out of Jaime’s posture. “Your father will believe this?”

“My father trusts me.” Brienne smiles softly as Jaime relaxes even further. “He won’t be happy; I won’t lie to you on that front. But he’ll be thankful that I’m not rotting in a forest between Riverrun and King’s Landing. He’ll be glad to know what became of his daughter, rather than her being an unknown corpse ravaged by wild animals.” 

Jaime crosses the short distance to her, making space for himself between her knees. It’s not often he’s in a position to be taller than her, and it may always be odd to look up at him, but it’s not unwelcome. He cups her face between his palms and does nothing for so long that Brienne feels the unease creep up her spine. 

Finally, he says, “I couldn’t let you die,” his voice low and fervent. “I should be sorry that I did this to you, but I can’t be. I’m not a good enough man for that.”

Brienne brings her hands up to cradle his. “If you weren’t a good man, you would have left me in that copse of trees and returned to your family. I know what you sacrificed to save me.”

He kisses her firmly, reverently, a soft noise bursting from him as if it was punched from his chest. “I love you,” he murmurs against her mouth. 

Brienne jerks away from him, her eyes wide, her heart stopping in her chest, the breath freezing in her lungs. She parts her lips, but can’t seem to form words. She half-believes she imagined the words, or misheard them, they were so quietly said.

“I do,” he insists, hands pressing more firmly against her face. His eyes trace his thumb as it brushes across her bottom lip. “I need you to remember that,” he tells her, his eyes focused and intent on hers. The nerves creep back in, but she nods her assent. “No matter what my family does, no matter what they say. What you witnessed at dinner, that was them at their kindest, Brienne. They will rip at anything good and pure. They will tear you apart. Tear us apart, if they can.” He kisses her again. “Please don’t let them.”

“You’re mine and I’m yours.” The words spill from her lips breathlessly. It feels as if she’s sealing something. The warmth in Jaime’s eyes and the tilt of his smile, easy and happy, make the emotions clog in her throat.

He kisses her again, every brush of his lips and stroke of his tongue against her own reinforcing his love for her. 

\--

Jaime wakes tangled up in Brienne. He couldn’t bear to leave her alone, not when the threat of Cersei was so fresh in his mind. The novelty of waking up with her in his arms feels as if it will never fade. She stretches, her bare body pressing fully against his as she opens her eyes. She looks at him in confusion for only a moment, before her expression settles, and a sweet smile touches her mouth.

He hates to ruin it, but there’s so much left unsaid, left behind in the haze of love and comfort they offered each other. 

“We have things to discuss,” he says quietly, brushing a lock of flaxen hair from her forehead. 

A faint crease forms between her eyebrows. He runs his thumb over it to smooth it out. She closes her eyes, drawing a deep breath through her nose, as if their combined scents calm her nerves. Jaime is reluctant to leave the warm shelter of their blankets, cocooning them from the outside world. 

“My father is removing me from the Kingsguard,” Jaime says.

Brienne’s eyes widen, her mouth softening in surprise. “But Kingsguard serve for life.”

It’s strange to him now how little that seems to matter. It was once his entire identity, but it has been soured since Aerys, and with Brienne to consider -- it seems much less important than it once did. 

“It’s meant to appease Westeros,” he explains, pushing on even as Brienne’s mouth opens to ask more questions. “I turned the only heir to Tarth. In the eyes of the people, I all but murdered you.”

“I’m not the _only_ heir to Tarth,” Brienne protests. “I have cousins in line to inherit.”

“But you’re the only heir in the direct line of succession.” Jaime sighs. “You know as well as I do that it matters.”

“There’s nothing to stop me from inheriting,” Brienne argues. “There aren’t laws that forbid it. My --” She pauses, flushing. “My inability to produce heirs of my own body has the same result: a cousin inheriting in my place.” Her eyes search his face, her mouth firming before she says, “Nothing you’ve done has changed anything. Either I died in the forest, and a cousin inherits; or I became a vampire, and a cousin inherits; or I become the Evenstar upon my father’s death, rule until I die, if I do, and a cousin inherits.”

Even the truth of her words does little to calm the guilt that churns in his belly. 

“That may be,” Jaime relents, “but your father may not agree with your assessment. Vampires are not beloved in Westeros, and even the word of Tywin Lannister cannot completely ensure my safety. Being allowed to continue in the Kingsguard, being allowed to _live_ , was … not precisely conditional. My father’s power helped, certainly, but I also swore that I wouldn’t take another human life. My life isn’t forfeit, but my good standing in Westeros almost certainly is, and yours with it.” Jaime traces the back of his fingers along the line of her cheek. “I wish there had been another way.”

“There’s no use in dwelling on things that can’t be changed,” Brienne says softly, nuzzling into his touch. “I will write to my father today. I simply have to believe that he will know I am still his daughter. His word when matched to your father’s -- and both of ours -- it will go a long way in pacifying the people.”

Jaime nods in cautious agreement, watching her carefully, and taking comfort in the confidence of her voice. He swallows, dreading that the next information may be even harder. 

“My father has also ordered us to leave King’s Landing and make for Casterly Rock.” Jaime’s voice is tight, unable to mask the rising tension within him. “With my removal from the Kingsguard, and in light of your transformation, he feels it’s safer for all involved if we disappear until he can ‘remediate the consequences’, as he so bluntly put it.”

Brienne’s jaw firms as he speaks, his favorite mulish expression settling over her features. He does his best not to smile, knowing that will only increase her ire. 

“I’m not leaving without Sansa Stark,” Brienne nearly growls. “I have no intention of breaking my oath to Lady Catelyn.”

“Yes, I told my father as much,” Jaime says, unable to completely quash the affection in his voice. “Many would consider it the height of foolishness to defy Tywin Lannister.”

“It won’t be the first foolish thing I’ve done,” she says obstinately. 

Jaime can’t completely stop the faint huff of laughter, causing Brienne to scowl. 

Gods, but he loves her. 

“We’ll find a way,” Jaime promises her. “But brute force isn’t an option in King’s Landing, especially not within the walls of the Red Keep.” He grabs her hand, holding it tightly, grounding them together. He knows he should warn her of Cersei directly; the threats she may pose to them both, but the words stick in his throat. He doesn't even know what Cersei will try, or if she will try anything if he appears to acquiesce. If he pretends that she has won yet again. “I may have to play the game. I need you to remember this. I need you to trust me.” 

“Of course, I trust you,” she says firmly, no doubt in her tone. 

“It will be difficult at times,” he cautions. “The Lannisters may be lions, but my father and sister have more in common with the vipers of Dorne. Believe in me. No matter what I say, what I do, what my _family_ says, you have to believe in me.” 

“I swear it.” Brienne’s tone is unwavering, her face firm in her surety. 

She seals her promise with a kiss that he hopes will carry him through the day ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, readers, we're getting there. I'm anticipating questions about Cersei's children. For the purposes of me not losing my mind, she has the children she has in canon. However, because vampires do not reproduce (I just _cannot_ get myself there), the children couldn't be Jaime's. That being said, Cersei is Cersei and part of her manipulation of Jaime was to (still) convince him that she wanted the children to seem like they could be theirs. Enter cousin Damion. I'm choosing to believe he has the Lannister look about him since I don't believe he appears in canon, and because Tywin married his first cousin Joanna Lannister. 
> 
> Damion is Joanna's brother's son, and, therefore, Jaime and Cersei's double-first-cousin. It's as close as she could get. I know people suspected Lancel at some point, but he was canonically two-years-old when Joff was born in canon and I just didn't have the time or inclination to completely restructure the line of succession, especially as it isn't exactly vital to the plot. 
> 
> _Finally_ , I'm operating under the assumption that no one thought to make a ton of rules about vampires and inheritance since there just aren't that many vampires anymore (or to begin with; or native to Westeros). I'm also operating under the assumption that there hasn't been a singular direct heir to Tarth since the beginning of the Tarth's taking over. Surely, somewhere out there, Brienne has at least one cousin that would take over if she died in the war. It just doesn't make sense otherwise, regardless of if GRRM mentions it. 
> 
> ... Again, my notes for this fic, so much longer than the fic itself. ;)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne flushes with humiliation. “I believe--” Brienne stutters to a halt, unsure how to continue. She cannot speak for Jaime. All she knows is what she feels for him--from him. The need that claws at them both, it eclipses all reason and sense. The longer she pauses, the more amused Cersei’s smirk becomes. “I believe your brother did what he thought was right,” she finally murmurs, far too late, far too meekly.
> 
> “Yes.” Cersei hums. “Jaime does seem fond of hideous acts he labels virtuous in the aftermath.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to bethanyactually for her wonderful beta!

“You could imagine my surprise at finding my _brother_ married to one of the Stark girls.” Jaime smirks at Tyrion. “Imagine my _further_ surprise at finding her still a maiden.”

“Never one to mince words, are you?” Tyrion turns to pour himself a goblet of wine, draining it before facing Jaime again.“It never gets less unnerving when you do that scent trick of yours.”

“Some of us were blessed with brains, some were blessed with brawn.”

“I don’t think you can reasonably label the ability to smell a maiden across a crowded room as a display of brawn.”

Jaime shrugs. “Does our father know you’ve failed the more important half of ‘wedded and bedded’?”

“How does our father feel about your…pet?” Tyrion bites back. 

Jaime flashes his fangs for just a breath, but it’s enough to make Tyrion’s eyebrows shoot up, an amused smirk faint at the corners of his mouth. 

“Has Cersei’s hold on you finally been broken by the Maid of Tarth?” Tyrion takes a long drink of wine before saying, “Though, based on your reaction, I believe the title may be something of a misnomer now.”

Jaime considers spitting back at Tyrion, arguing with him, flinging barbs like they always have before. But it coils within him, the need to confide in someone, someone with just as many secrets to keep.

“She’s mine.” Jaime says it plainly, doesn’t pay any mind to either surprise or lack thereof on Tyrion’s face. “I made her; but I think she was mine before that. Or she was meant to be mine. The ‘scent trick’--it’s not exactly what people imagine. There’s a purity. Like the difference between a lake and a clear, mountain stream. I thought, at first, it was that purity calling to me. The Starks starved me and I was so hungry when I first met her. The scent of her made me…” Jaime huffs, splaying his hands before curling them into frustrated fists. “I’ve never felt that-- _that_. It was like my body knew she would satisfy the need like no other.”

“You always were the romantic of the family,” Tyrion says dryly. 

Jaime narrows his gaze at Tyrion, but instead of his usual wry judgment, Jaime finds an unexpected sympathy there. 

“It won’t surprise you to know that Father has rewarded my romanticism with removal from the Kingsguard and banishment from the capital.” 

“Well, brother, I congratulate you.” Tyrion has a satisfied smirk on his face. Jaime raises his eyebrows in question. “You’ve accomplished a feat few have: you’ve pushed the great Tywin Lannister to act the fool.” 

“How is that?”

“Could anything be more conspicuous than the removal of his son from a position that he’s intended to be sworn to for life?” Tyrion, always fond of a rhetorical question, doesn’t pause for an answer before pressing on. “I assume he was furious that you turned someone, an heir to a noble house at that, but would it not be worse for all involved to make a spectacle of your removal and subsequent banishment? It would be far more intelligent to use just a touch of political acumen and divert attention to our beloved nephew’s upcoming wedding. There will be enough pomp and circumstance to distract from the heir of a largely insignificant house quietly arriving in King’s Landing ahead of the coming spectacle.” 

Jaime’s thoughts spin, the logic of Tyrion’s speech laid over his father’s furious dictates. “You’re right,” he murmurs, more to himself than Tyrion. 

Tyrion pauses in his pacing and snorts. “I usually am.”

Jaime gives him a look only a long-suffering sibling could muster. 

“Father would do well to ignore the former Maid of Tarth in favor of welcoming his heroic--if not infamous--son just in time for the newly crowned King’s nuptial celebration.” Tyrion smirks, satisfied with his own genius as always. “Your lady is strangely inconspicuous for one so large.”

Jaime bristles for just a moment over the slight to Brienne, but he knows Tyrion, and he knows better that it’s more a compliment than anything else coming from Tyrion’s lips. 

“I assume father isn’t planning on a ceremony for your removal,” Tyrion says. “Even you can’t make him angry enough to expose one of his children to such ridicule and speculation. You may want to throw yourself at his feet and explain why it would be better to delay any actions that may seem rash.”

“Any advice on how to do it without being disowned as well?”

“There isn’t a person in Westeros less apt at pacifying Father than his least favorite child.” Tyrion’s expression darkens and smooths in a flash, as Tyrion’s sardonic mask slips into place. If Jaime didn’t know him so well, he would’ve missed it entirely. “All I can advise is that you don’t expose that soft underbelly of yours. You do have a brain behind that pretty face of yours. Use it.”

Jaime nods absently, swallowing the information and allowing the feeling of rightness to build like a wall in his chest. He finally looks back up at Tyrion and says, “There’s another problem. A bigger problem, perhaps.” 

“I need more wine.”

“Yes, that would probably be for the best.” Jaime waits while Tyrion pours another goblet near to spilling before beginning. “It’s in regards to your as-yet unbedded wife …”

\--

Brienne opens the door to Ser Barristan Selmy. It unnerves her to be in the presence of other vampires, ones that are not Jaime. It’s strange that there is no bond, that she can’t sense his intentions. 

“Her Grace requests your presence,” Ser Barristan informs her. 

Fear slips down Brienne’s spine like ice. She remembers Jaime’s warnings, the promises they swore, and she dreads what’s to come. Brienne follows Ser Barristan silently to the Queen Regent’s quarters. Somehow, it is more frightening than if Cersei had greeted her somewhere less private.

The door opens to Cersei Lannister standing bathed in sunlight, her hair a golden halo around her beautiful face. She’s a vision, the sort of woman Brienne envied and despised all at once in her youth for their ability to be what she was meant for so easily. 

“Thank you, Ser Barristan,” she says coolly. “That will be all.”

Brienne hears the clinking of armor as Ser Barristan bows, the clip of boots as he quits the room, shutting the door softly behind him. It’s only then that Cersei turns that cold look to her. 

“Your Grace,” Brienne greets her with a bow.

“Lady Brienne.” Cersei gestures a hand for Brienne to take a seat. She goes, her knees quivering on the short walk. Cersei does not sit. Brienne is not dull enough that she doesn’t recognize it as a reminder of her position in this city. Cersei stares at her and it is all Brienne can do not to shift uncomfortably. “I believe my family has failed to thank you for the safe return of my beloved brother.”

“No thanks are needed, Your Grace,” Brienne says quietly. “Your brother and I--we saved each other more than once. I would not be here if not for his actions.”

“Ah, yes.” An unnerving smirk curls at Cersei’s mouth. “The heroic act of turning you into a monster.” She tilts her head, eyes raking over Brienne from head to toe. “Though, perhaps he thought he was doing you a kindness, aligning your appearance with your nature.”

Brienne flushes with humiliation. “I believe--” Brienne stutters to a halt, unsure how to continue. She cannot speak for Jaime. All she knows is what she feels for him--from him. The need that claws at them both, it eclipses all reason and sense. The longer she pauses, the more amused Cersei’s smirk becomes. “I believe your brother did what he thought was right,” she finally murmurs, far too late, far too meekly.

“Yes.” Cersei hums. “Jaime does seem fond of hideous acts he labels virtuous in the aftermath.” 

Brienne bristles at that, the implication that Cersei does not believe in her own flesh and blood.   
“Your brother is a good man,” Brienne says hotly. 

“Is he then?” Cersei raises an eyebrow as she finally takes a seat across from Brienne. “I believe you may be the only … _thing_ in the Seven Kingdoms that would claim as much.” 

“People do not know your brother.” 

“And you do?” Cersei asks, sharp, cutting. 

“I know him better than most,” Brienne insists, lengthening her spine, setting her jaw defiantly, secure in this, at least. 

Cersei huffs a laugh, one that would be a snort from a less elegant person. “You’re in love with him.”

Brienne can’t stop herself from gaping at Cersei, her heart nearly stopping in her chest. To declare to his sister what she has not even said to him--it’s unthinkable. Yet denial also freezes in her chest, nearly as unbearable an idea as confirmation.

“I wonder if you would love him if you knew him for true?” Cersei muses, relaxing back into her seat, a lion reclining in a sunbeam. “Instead of the man he wishes for people to see.” Cersei cocks her head to one side. “Tell me, Lady Brienne, did he seduce you with sweet words or did he do so with touch alone?” 

“Jaime--” Brienne begins to protest, but finds herself unable to continue when Cersei’s eyebrow lifts, an expression on her face as if she would love to crow victory from atop the Red Keep. 

“Jaime does have a way with words, does he not?” There is something knowing in Cersei’s words that raises the hair at the nape of Brienne’s neck. “I admit, I was immune to his honey-tongued declarations at first, but he’s terribly insistent when he wants something. Eventually …” 

It can’t be true, what the Queen is implying. That she and Jaime-- that Jaime-- it’s not possible. 

“Ah, my brother didn’t share that bit of truth, then?” Cersei asks, though there’s nothing of a question in her tone. 

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Brienne says through numb lips. 

“You truly are a stupid beast, aren’t you?” Cersei snaps harshly. “My brother learned every word of seduction by practicing them on _me_. He learned every caress of pleasure on _my body_. Everything that makes you tremble with need for him, he learned between my thighs.” 

Brienne can hear Cersei’s pulse where it throbs in the veins that stand out in relief on her neck. She feels her own breath coming faster, a rabbit panicking at the sight of a predator. 

“He begged me for years,” Cersei continues, uncaring, or perhaps even excited by Brienne’s shocked silence. “On his knees before me, or with his cock buried deep within, over and over, he begged me to be his wife. He pleaded with me to drink from him so we could be together for eternity. No matter how many times I denied him, he wanted me badly enough to ask again.” 

Brienne shoots to her feet before she’s even cognizant of her actions. 

“I -- excuse me -- I must--” Brienne bows mindlessly, nearly tripping over her own feet as she stumbles her way from the room. Cersei makes no movement, no sound, to stop her.

Somehow, through the fog of panic, she makes it back to the sanctuary of her chambers. She dry heaves into the chamber pot, her empty stomach producing nothing as it tries to expel the vile words of Cersei Lannister. 

\--

Jaime is brimming with the giddiness of victory. For possibly the first time in his life, he had successfully negotiated with his father. He has a plan for how to save Sansa Stark, concocted with the smartest Lannister, and therefore nearly foolproof. “I have good news,” he says with a beaming smile, barely greeting Brienne as he glides past her. “My father has agreed to delay my removal from the Kingsguard until after Joffrey’s wedding. I spoke with Tyrion. I think we have a plan for how you and I can keep our oath to... ” He trails off. Brienne’s expression is remote, the space that should be occupied by her excitement is nearly void. “What’s wrong?”

“I spoke with your sister,” she says, then hastily corrects, “Her Grace.”

Jaime doesn’t feel like a beast very often, but his sister’s name and the look on Brienne’s face are enough to make him want to tear something to shreds.

“What has she done?” Jaime steps closer. She doesn’t say anything, just stands there, managing to look strangely fragile for someone with so much physical presence. “Brienne,” he says softly, waiting until her eyes meet his again, “what did my sister say to you?”

“Did you--” Brienne stops, her body trembles. He can feel the fear and horror coursing through her. “Did you want your sister to--to be yours?”

Jaime feels as if time itself stops. The words may seem vague, but the meaning turns Jaime’s blood to ice. He should have _known_ that Cersei would stop at nothing to take Brienne from him. While he’s been too busy watching for physical threats, he forgot that Cersei’s true cruelty resides on her tongue. He knows what she did. 

“Brienne,” he says helplessly. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice wavering, but something harsh in her expression. 

“Why are you _sorry_?”

“That you had to settle for me.” Instead of resigned, it comes out as angry. He can feel the confusion and anger and hurt tangled within her like the thorn-laden stems of a rosebush. “I am grateful you didn’t let me die, but you have no obligation to me. I’m sure with time and distance the bond--”

Now anger boils within him: anger at his godsdamned sister, his father, this wretched city. He’s across the room, Brienne’s face cupped in his hands in a flash. 

“You know better than that,” he all but growls. Her eyelids flutter shut. She shakes her head as much as she can between his palms. He wants to shake her, not in violence, but in desperation that she _listen_ to him, that she _feel_ him. “I love you.”

“You couldn’t possibly,” she whispers, her words barely audible. “I’m yours, but that’s not love. It’s something animal.”

“The bond doesn’t create this,” he insists. “Did I love my sire?”

Brienne looks at him again, the blue of her eyes more of a roiling, angry sea than the clear, deep sapphire he’s accustomed to. Her pulse pounds heavy against his palm.

“I know you want me.” She presses one cheek more firmly against his palm, a terrifyingly resigned expression in her gaze. “It’s so easy to confuse them, but love and desire are not the same, and I can’t bear to be witness when you realize that.” 

She reaches up and removes his hands from her cheeks and steps away from him. There’s such a certainty in her every word and movement, and panic thrums in him at the idea of her walking away from him, of abandoning him and leaving him alone once more. 

“How can I compete with your sister?” she asks him earnestly. “She is beautiful where I am ugly. She is delicate where I am brutish. Witty where I am dull. Eventually, you’ll remember these truths, and I fear you’ll resent that you felt the need to repay me for saving you.” 

He can’t refute the words she says; she would know he lied, for all of her statements are factual. His sister is more beautiful, more delicate, wittier... but those things don’t matter. She is a monster through and through, in ways that Jaime did not believe a human could be. Brienne is all light, an honest and _good_ person who has allowed his wretched soul to have her and hold her. 

“Are _you_ simply repaying me?” he asks her, mounting dread climbing up from his gut.

She reels, shock plain on her face, but she doesn’t answer immediately. 

“Is that what this is? I have told you I love you, but you haven’t returned the favor. Are you simply grateful or do you love me, Brienne?”

She stares at him, chin quivering, eyes wet with unshed tears. He can’t leave it unanswered, refuses to accept silence as an answer. 

“I love you,” he says, even though the words want to lodge in his throat. “I realize now the love I felt for my sister was a dark, twisted thing. No matter how right it felt, I know it wasn’t. I am telling you, saying it plainly so you have no doubts: I choose you over everyone, over every _thing_. I see my sister for what she is, and I want no part of it. With or without you, my relationship with Cersei is at an end. I would rather it be with you, but only if you feel the same.” He pauses, heart threatening to beat through his ribs. He is so consumed by an overwhelming anxiety, that all he can sense from Brienne is a similar panic. “So I will ask you again, do you love me?”

She closes her eyes and takes a shuddering breath, unshed tears clinging to her translucent lashes. When she finally looks at him again, there’s a surety to her expression that makes his love for her spread through him like flames, melting away the icy fear. 

She finally replies, her voice firm though barely above a whisper, “Yes.” 

If there was a flame within his chest before, now it flares like wildfire. The relief and love in her confident, assured declaration makes him feel almost weak. 

“Say it,” Jaime asks, not even ashamed to beg at this point. “Say the words, Brienne.”

He watches the nervous swallow that tightens her throat. He’s an impatient man by nature, brash and decisive, but in this moment he feels he could wait until his body is dust if necessary. 

“I love you,” she says, her voice shaking. 

Somehow, it still feels a bit like a blow to the chest. He can’t stop the smile from curling at the corners of his mouth. “Again.”

Brienne manages an aggrieved expression even through the storm of emotions. 

“Again,” he says. “Please.”

It must be the pathetic _please_ that does it. Her face softens as she says again, “I love you.” 

“Good,” he says, chuckling softly at the unfamiliar joy. “That’s good.” 

When he goes to her, she opens herself to him, and he can feel the calm that descends over both of them. He kisses her, and somehow it’s sweeter than it’s ever been before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest, I think the conversation between Cersei and Brienne might be the best thing I've ever written. Which is a shame, because it might all be downhill from here. ;) 
> 
> Next time: we wrap up the actual plot of this story.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end has come!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ENDLESS thanks to bethanyactually, who somehow lasted through this entire fic and didn't fly across an ocean just to murder me. I'm not sure that she would've been out of line to do so. 
> 
> Thank you also to, in no particular order, and hopefully not missing anyone: girls_like_girls, ddagent, sassbewitchedmyass, and nire for frequently hand-holding and encouraging me and reminding me I could actually write this.

Jaime goes to Cersei this time. 

The guard lets him in without question. His sister stands at the window, bathed in sunlight. He knows she uses it to remind him that he is relegated to the shadows while she is still the golden light of the West. She waits long enough for him to know that she’s deigning to give him attention when she finally faces him. 

It is strange to think there was a time when he didn’t see her machinations for what they are.

The smile she gives him is no longer sweet and simpering, nor is it sly and seductive. She smiles at him beaming with cruel victory. 

In the blink of an eye, he is across the room, his hand wrapped around her slender neck, pressing her back against the wall with the full weight of his body. Her surprise quickly transforms to fury. 

“You wish to add _kinslayer_ to your list of offenses?”

“No, I wish to crush the throat of a woman who only uses her voice to ruin others.” 

“I could call my guards in a moment. They will be all too happy to finally rid the world of the Kingslayer.”

“I would snap your neck before they were halfway across the room.” Jaime smiles just wide enough that Cersei can see the points of his fangs. “It would be a sweet death as long as I saw the life leave your eyes first.”

If Cersei had fangs, she would flash them. As it is, Cersei’s eyes glint with pure hatred. “I take it your creature has closed her cunt to you?”

Jaime can feel that flare of true rage within him, but it’s dulled. The shadow of Cersei can no longer reach those deepest parts of him, the places Brienne has illuminated. He squeezes her throat one last time, only hard enough that her eyes widen in fear before he releases her and steps back. 

“You took her from me.” He calls forth every ounce of desperation he felt when Brienne tried to free him from obligation, the crushing flood of panic and despair at the idea of losing her. 

“No,” Cersei spits out. “You lost her with your weakness.”

Jaime flinches. Somehow, she always manages to find the weakest point in anyone. Jaime may not have lost Brienne for true, but he was so near it that Cersei’s words flay him where he’s most vulnerable.

“Why?” Jaime asks, stepping further away from her. It’s strange that he means it. He loved Cersei so deeply, fully, blindly. He had been devoted to her in a way that eclipsed all others. Now, it’s like a veil has been lifted, revealing the darkness beneath the beautiful facade. “Why did you do it?”

“You’re mine until I say otherwise,” she says coldly. “You thought you could choose to leave me and I would lie down and let it happen?”

“You have never once been devoted to me,” he snaps at her. “I loved you without reserve. Did you ever love me?”

For a moment, brief though it is, Cersei looks vulnerable. Then her eyes harden, her expression shuttered, her thoughts retreating behind carefully constructed walls. “I loved your cock.”

There it is, the answer to any questions Jaime had left. 

“Someday, Cersei,” Jaime says quietly. “Someday, you will know true pain. I only hope I’m there to witness it.”

With that, for the final time, he leaves her. 

\--

The loss of Jaime’s presence, of his body next to hers, feels like being submerged in water. She knows there are spiders in the walls of the Red Keep. She understands that she and Jaime have to appear estranged. 

But she misses him. She hasn’t seen him since he came to her room after she met with Cersei. She misses his scent, and the taste of his skin, the grip of his fingers, the rasp of his beard. The further he is from her, the longer they’re apart, the harder it is for her to feel his emotions clearly. She doesn’t know if it’s true, or if it’s the fear that builds within during in their time apart. 

The raven from her father arrives a sennight after her conversation with Cersei. 

_Daughter,_

_When you first left Evenfall, my greatest fear was that I would never hear of you again until word of your death arrived. No, my greatest fear is that I would never know what became of you. I do not rejoice in the news of your change. However, there is no doubt in my mind that what you write is the truth. Unexpectedly, I find myself grateful for Ser Jaime’s rash actions in giving you the opportunity to live._

_My faith in your honor is unwavering. If you swear that he is a good man, that you remain the daughter I know and love, then I have little choice but to believe you._

_When the fighting is done, you will bring Ser Jaime to Evenfall. I would thank the man that gave me the chance of seeing my only child once more._

The signature at the bottom is not his formal one, title and all. It’s simply signed, _Your Father_. She hasn’t allowed herself to dwell on missing him for the years she’s been away. If she pauses to think of it, it feels like she can’t draw a breath. For so long, it was only the two of them. Her mother and siblings gone in quick succession, leaving a devastated man and his confused four-year-old daughter.

She knows he blames himself for how she is, how unwomanly she’s turned out. She wishes she could convince him that it’s her nature, that no manner of careful rearing by a gentlewoman would have produced a smaller, daintier, prettier child. Brienne had the same dreams as any other woman as a young girl: a handsome man, one who sees her for who she is, loves her for all of it, and gives her healthy children to love.

But those things are not for Brienne. She is as tall as her father, and her shoulders are just as broad, if not broader. Her face is ugly, her body even moreso. By the time she flowered, she was far more comfortable with a sword in her hand than a needle; the footwork of dueling has always felt more natural than dancing. 

She knew, even as a child, the best she could hope for would be a disdainful husband who lay with her in the dark so as to fulfill his duty for heirs. 

As certain as Brienne is of Jaime’s love for her, and hers for him, there are still so many things left to question. In normal circumstances, their marriage would be arranged by their fathers, and only if they were given the choice of whom to marry. But then, if not for the circumstances, Jaime would never have spared her anything more than a contemptuous glance. 

Still, there is a small part of Brienne that still wonders if Jaime would marry her. If that’s even something a vampire could want, or if the blessing of the Seven on their joining would be impossible. She wants it, ridiculous though it is considering how often she’s welcomed him into her bed, her body. She craves the acknowledgement before the gods and men that he claims her, not only her body, but her soul, with love and for eternity. 

When she finally picks up the quill and writes her response, it is as long as she can manage with the uncertainty that still simmers within her:

_Father,_

_I will come as soon as I am able. I will bring Ser Jaime if at all possible._

_Your Loving Daughter_

She has barely sanded the letter when there is a light tapping at her door. With a thumping heart, she opens it to find Sansa Stark standing on the other side, with Olenna and Margaery Tyrell flanking her. Down the hall, a small grouping of guards were awaiting. 

“Lady Brienne,” Sansa greets with a shallow curtsy. “I was hoping you would join us for tea in Lady Olenna’s solar.”

“Of course, my lady.” 

Brienne follows behind them, the guards behind her. She can feel their eyes on her the entire way; can practically taste their disdain, it’s so thick in the air. 

They barely cross the threshold to Lady Olenna’s rooms before Lady Olenna instructs the guards to wait outside. When they look to protest, she skewers them with a look that chills even Brienne. “Leave us.” They retreat, leaving Brienne in awe and envious of such a small, frail-looking person commanding soldiers with naught more than a glare. 

Lady Olenna instructs them all to take their seats. Brienne prepares to decline tea, her stomach uneasy enough without tempting fate with food, but then she catches the odor of the small jug that Lady Olenna passes her. Sheep’s blood, if she isn’t mistaken. 

“Thank you,” Brienne says sincerely. She cringes to imagine the faces of the women gathered around the table as she cautiously sips at the warm blood. 

Lady Olenna dismisses the few remaining handmaidens before turning to Brienne. “I believe we may be of some assistance to you, Lady Brienne.”

Brienne blinks. She’s not sure what she expected from this meeting, but it certainly wasn’t an offer of help from Lady Olenna. “I’m sorry, my lady, I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

Lady Olenna looks at her shrewdly. “My granddaughter is set to marry the King in two days time.” Lady Olenna’s eyes soften for only a moment as she looks at Lady Margaery. “Lady Sansa has been very open with us regarding His Grace’s true nature.” 

Brienne darts a glance to Lady Sansa, finding her wan, her hands trembling and the pulse at the base of her jaw thrumming wildly. When she meets Lady Olenna’s eyes once more, there’s acknowledgement there and in the small nod of Lady Olenna’s head. 

“Sansa has put herself at great personal risk by sharing this information,” Lady Olenna continues. “We would repay her in kind.”

Brienne’s brows furrow as she looks from Lady Olenna to Lady Margaery. “How will this involve me?”

“We will provide a distraction,” Lady Margaery explains. “At my wedding feast, there will be an opportunity, briefly, for you to escape with Lady Sansa before anyone notices her absence.”

“When?”

“You’ll know the moment,” Lady Olenna answers in a tone that brooks no argument. “We will not reveal more than that, to protect all of us from implication. Now,” she clears her throat, “there is one other complication. Lady Sansa?”

Sansa is wide-eyed when Brienne meets her stare. “Lord Baelish,” she says in a tremulous tone, “he was very close to my mother. They were friends in their youth. He has--” she cuts herself off, swallowing heavily as if pushing back bile. “He has taken a particular interest in me.”

Brienne’s own stomach turns at that. “My lady, has he touch--”

“No!” Sansa interrupts breathlessly. “No, he has done nothing so improper. But--but I fear--I fear that…” Her blush is a fiery color against the nearly grey pallor of her skin. “He has asked me to go with him. He says I will know when the time has come.” She looks down at her hands where they twist in her lap, her chest rising and falling heavily with barely restrained panic. When she finally lifts her eyes back to Brienne’s, there’s a reserve of strength there, unexpected and bolstering all at once. “I don’t wish to go with him. If my mother--” Her eyes fill with tears. “If my mother trusted you, then I trust you.” 

“I will protect you,” Brienne says vehemently. Lady Sansa looks so like her late mother, sitting there with the weight of too much loss on her shoulders, and still remaining strong. Brienne remembers the solemn vow she made to Lady Catelyn, how she had pledged her life in service to her. She rises and kneels at Lady Sansa’s feet, head bowed. “I offer my services. I will shield your back, and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

Brienne raises her head to look at Sansa once more to find Sansa’s hands shaking. Sansa takes a shuddering breath, before saying, “And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. I pledge to ask no service of you that may bring you dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new.” The longer she speaks, the straighter her spine and clearer her voice, until she says, “Arise,” with all the confidence and command of a queen. 

\--

Jaime knows it’s dangerous to risk it, but he’s beyond caring. The only time he’s seen Brienne in more than a sennight was a brief, hushed conversation where Brienne relayed the information from Lady Olenna Tyrell about the wedding. Jaime may not know what’s to come, or if they’ll all survive the aftermath, but he knows that if they don’t, his only regret will be denying his love for Brienne, if only by omission. 

He’s barely tapped the door before it’s flung open and he’s jerked inside, colliding with the solid wall of warmth that is Brienne. He takes a moment to appreciate the press of her against him, the scent of her, the thrum of her pulse. He has missed her like a limb, as if he’s lost his right arm and his heart with it. 

Her face is so near his, her eyes glinting with anger. He doesn’t hesitate for a moment, reaching up and drawing her down into a searing kiss. It’s the sort of embrace that feels like the clash of swords, a jolt through his body, vibrating down to his bones. 

She melts against him for only a second before shoving him away. “What do you think you’re doing?” she hisses.

Jaime’s smile only makes her scowl more. Gods, but he has missed that glower. She’s wearing the blue brocade dress again, and the angry flush of her chest stands out even more starkly against the fabric. “I’ve come to escort you to the wedding.”

She leans away from him, startled at the ease of his declaration. “But we--”

“Whatever this mad plan of Olenna Tyrell’s is, there is no guarantee that we will all survive it,” he says, forcefully, seriously. Brienne opens her mouth as if to respond, but he cuts her off. “I would not have my sister believe that she won, that she destroyed us, if something should happen.”

“Nothing will--”

“You can’t guarantee that,” he says, grabbing her hand and squeezing it fiercely. “None of us can guarantee anything. So, I will escort you to the wedding. I will stand by your side, and everyone of importance in the Seven Kingdoms will see you on my arm. They will know what that means, what my intent is. No matter what comes after. You will not be some secret, as if you are something to be ashamed of.”

She looks completely overwhelmed by the end of his speech. Her mouth slack, the blush high on her cheeks, her eyes wide and watery, her face achingly open and wondering at his words. 

“If we survive this,” he continues, closing the miniscule distance between them, “we will deliver Lady Sansa to what remains of her family in the North, or to the Tullys at Riverrun, if she chooses. After that, I will take you to Tarth and beg your father for your hand, if need be. I will make you Brienne of Tarth, Lady Lannister of Casterly Rock and future Evenstar, and may the gods damn anyone who dare to stand in my way.”

This time she lets him pull her into a kiss and she holds him just as tightly.

\--

Brienne feels every single eye turn to her and Jaime as they enter the Great Sept. At any time before, she would have shrunk away from it, desperate to make herself inconspicuous in spite of her height and breadth. Now, though, she stands tall with Jaime at her side. She can feel the certainty and pride in every muscle of his body, and that makes the attention of everyone seem inconsequential. 

She may be ugly and mannish, she may be a beast, a monster that parents warn their children of; but she is also a woman loved for who she is. Loved for not only the bits and pieces of her that are palatable to the masses, but every part of her: her mulish jaw and thick waist, her sword-callused hands, and the ropey strength of her calves. To be loved for the soft parts she hides so fiercely beneath the angry layers of pain on top, and behind the stubborn mask she shows to all. 

When Jaime holds her and kisses her, when he whispers against her skin words of love and devotion, she knows he means it. She knows that whatever she is, it’s what he wants. He knows the same of her. 

And so, with the eyes of the members of every noble house of Westeros on her, she walks with her chin held high, her arm through Jaime’s. And instead of fumbling through a curtsy, she bows, the same as Jaime. They stand near the front as Joffrey and Margaery recite their vows. Jaime’s fingers briefly tangle with hers as Joffrey cloaks Margaery in Baratheon colors, and Brienne can feel the promise in that touch. 

Things seem to blur after the cloaking. The ceremony draws to an end, and the guests are ushered along swiftly to the Great Hall for celebratory feasting and dancing. 

The King is a cruel, shallow boy. He seems to take little delight beyond the mockery and mortification of his subjects. Brienne is only too happy that she has escaped his notice to this point. She doesn’t know whether that’s due to some action by Jaime, or the Queen Regent’s unwillingness to allow the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms within reach of a monster, but either way, Brienne is at least able to avoid direct censure. The gods only know what Jaime’s reaction would be if his simpering nephew tried to humiliate Brienne in front of everyone.

Brienne can feel the tension knotting her muscles with every passing moment. All of her pledges, her promises of service--she either succeeds or she fails tonight, and there’s very little within her power to affect how it transpires before her part. She’s all but despairing when the King’s voice is suddenly cut short. She looks up to see his face turning a mottled purple as he clutches at his throat. 

Jaime grips her arm and she turns, wide-eyed, to find Lady Olenna. She’s already looking in Brienne’s direction and when their eyes meet, she nods briefly and Brienne knows. 

“Now,” Brienne hisses amidst the cacophony of panicked courtiers. Only Jaime could possibly hear her, and he is on his feet before she finishes the word. 

Brienne’s heart skips a panicked beat when she finally spots Lady Sansa, being led away from the mayhem by Petyr Baelish. She touches Jaime’s arm, and his eyes follow hers. They move as one, their bodies working in tandem as only weeks of constant companionship and their preternatural bond can produce. 

Brienne has the pleasure of snapping Petyr Baelish’s neck. She rips him from Lady Sansa in a corridor just outside the main hall. He crumbles lifelessly at her feet before he’s aware he’s been caught. Sansa stares at them both. Brienne feels Jaime tense beside her and they both await Sansa’s panic, for her screams of danger to draw the attention of some guards. 

Instead, Sansa proves herself to be every inch Lady Catelyn and Ned Stark’s daughter. She squares her shoulders, and sets her chin in an imperious tilt. 

“I should like to be escorted to my Uncle Brynden at Riverrun,” she tells them both, her tone unwavering and sure. “The Blackfish can keep me as safe as any man. I’m not sure if I have any family left in the North, and as my father was fond of reminding his children: winter is coming.” 

Brienne nods. “Of course, my lady.” She looks to Jaime at her side, his expression one of such confidence that Brienne has no choice but to believe they will return Lady Sansa to safety, and that after...after Jaime will take her to Tarth. Perhaps, not immediately after. They will likely be called to duty, bound by honor to fight in the war for the Seven Kingdoms. But this time, they will at least fight side by side. 

And after the wars are all but over, their duties and oaths fulfilled, they will go to Tarth. They will marry, swear their vows before the old gods and the new, and they will fight against whatever comes their way, together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that made it with me to the end of this bizarre journey. I'm sure people will have questions and/or complaints about the slightly open end. But, believe it or not, it was always planned that way. I never wanted to finish GRRM's work for him. I wanted to create a world in which Jaime and Brienne are bonded before Sansa ever leaves King's Landing, and that they would travel together to save her. 
> 
> I guess to clear some things up that don't fit within the bounds of the story:  
> 1) Sansa does make it to Riverrun. The Blackfish and co. to accept her into their household to protect her. Cersei and the rest of the King's Landing crew don't know until it's too late to do much about it. 
> 
> 2) Jaime and Brienne do fight on behalf of the Starks, etc. Because Jaime is really over the whole Lannister thing. Brienne is the only one that matters to him, as well it should be.
> 
> 3) Selwyn does give them permission to marry, obviously. She DOES become Brienne of Tarth, Lady Lannister, future Evenstar. 
> 
> 4) There really isn't any sort of statute that says vampires can't inherit, so, they just chill as Lord and Lady Lannister, and Evenstar and her consort.


End file.
